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xINiiAV^  ■ 

THE    MAN    AND 
THE    MOMENT 


By  ELINOR  GLYN 

The  Man  and  the  Moment 
Your  AflFectionate  Godmother 
The  Point  of  View 


Guinevere's  Lover 

Halcyone 

The  Reason  Why 

His  Hour 

D.    APPLETON    AND 

COMPANY 

Publishers 

New  YORK 

"It  all  looked  very  intimate  and  lover-like  " 


[Page  149] 


THE   MAN   AND 
THE  MOMENT 


BT 


ELINOR  GLYN 

AUTHOR  OP  "Guinevere's  lover,"  "halcyonb,' 
"the  reason  why,"  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED   BT 

R.  F.  James 


NEW    YORK 
D.   APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

1914 


Copyright,  1914,  by 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


COPYBIGHT,    1914,   BY  The  ReD  BoOK  CoBPOBATION 


17 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PAGE 


"  It  all  looked  very  intimate  and  lover-like  " 

Frontispiece 

"  He  bounded  forward  to  meet  her  " 48 

"  His  solitary  table  was  near  theirs  in  the  restaurant "  64 

"  '  He  is  often  in  some  scrape — something  must  have 

culminated  to-night '" 224 


644480 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 


CHAPTER   I 

ICHAEL  ARRANSTOUN  folded  a  letter 
which  he  had  been  reading  for  the  seventh 
time,  with  a  vicious  intentness,  and  then 
jumping  up  from  the  big  leather  chair  in  which  he  had 
been  buried,  he  said  aloud,  "Damn !" 

When  a  young,  rich  and  good-looking  man  says  that 
particular  word  aloud  with  a  fearful  grind  of  the  teeth, 
one  may  know  that  he  is  in  the  very  devil  of  a  temper ! 

Michael  Arranstoun  was ! 

And,  to  be  sure,  he  had  ample  reason,  as  you,  my 
friend,  who  may  happen  to  have  begun  this  tale,  will 
presently  see. 

It  is  really  most  irritating  to  be  suddenly  confronted 
with  the  consequences  of  one's  follies  at  any  age,  but  at 
twenty-four,  when  otherwise  the  whole  life  is  smiling 
for  one,  it  seems  quite  too  hard. 

The  frightful  language  this  well-endowed  young 
gentleman  now  indulged  in,  half  aloud  and  half  in 
thought,  would  be  quite  impossible  to  put  on  paper! 
It  contained  what  almost  amounted  to  curses  for  a 
certain   lady   whose   appearance,   could   she   have  been 

1 


•11 1 1:    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

8,vn  ut  tl.is  luoinent,  suggested  that  of  a  pious  little 

saint. 

..,!„„.   ti,,.  ii can  I  keep  from  marrying  her!" 

Mr.  Arr.instoun  said  more  than  aloud  this  time,  and 
then  kicking  an  iiuiocent  footstool  across  the  room,  he 
called  his  bulldog,  put  on  his  cap  and  stamped  out 
on  to  tlic  old  stone  balcony  which  opened  from  this 
apartment,  and  was  soon  stalking  down  the  staircase 
and  across  the  lawn  to  a  little  door  in  the  great  forti- 
fied wall,  which  led  into  the  park. 

Ho  had  hardly  left  the  room  when,  from  the  wide 
arche<l  doorway  of  liis  bed-chamber  beyond,  there  en- 
tered Mr.  Johnson,  his  superior  valet,  carrying  some 
riding-boots  and  a  silk  shirt  over  his  arm.  You  could 
sec  through  the  open  door  that  it  was  a  very  big  and 
comfortiible  bedroom,  which  had  evidently  been 
adapted  to  its  present  use  from  some  much  more  state- 
ly beginning,  A  large,  vaulted  chamber  it  was,  with 
three  narrow  windows  looking  on  to  the  grim  courtyard 
beneath. 

Michael  Arranstoun  had  selected  this  particular 
suite  for  himself  when  his  father  died  ten  years  before, 
and  his  mother  was  left  to  spoil  him,  until  she,  too, 
departed  from  this  world  when  he  was  sixteen. 

What  a  splendid  inheritance  he  had  come  into !  This 
old  border  castle  up  in  the  north — and  not  a  mortgage 
on  the  entire  property !  While,  from  his  mother,  a 
number  of  solid  golden  sovereigns  flowed  into  his  cof- 

2 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    ]\IO]\IENT 

fers  every  year — obtained  by  trade !    That  was  a  little 
disgusting  for  the  Arranstouns — but  extremely  useful. 

It  might  have  been  from  this  same  strain  that  the 
fortunate  j'oung  man  had  also  inherited  that  common 
sense  which  made  him  fairly  level-headed,  and  not  given 
as  a  rule  to  any  over-mad  taste. 

The  Arranstouns  had  been  at  Arranstoun  since  the 
time  of  those  tiresome  Picts  and  Scots — and  for  gen- 
erations they  had  raided  their  neighbors'  castles  and 
lands,  and  carried  off  their  cattle  and  wives  and  daugh- 
ters and  what  not!  They  had  seized  anything  they 
fancied,  and  were  a  strong,  ruthless,  brutal  race,  not 
much  vitiated  by  civilization.  These  instincts  of  seiz- 
ing what  they  wanted  had  gone  on  in  them  throughout 
eleven  hundred  years  and  more,  and  were  there  until 
this  day,  when  Michael,  the  sole  representative  of  this 
branch  of  the  family,  said  "Damn !"  and  kicked  a  foot- 
stool across  the  room  into  the  grate. 

Mr.  Johnson  was  quite  aware  of  the  peculiarity  of 
the  family.  Indeed,  he  was  not  surprised  when  Alex- 
ander Armstrong  remarked  upon  it  presently.  Alex- 
ander Armstrong  was  the  old  retainer,  who  now  en- 
joyed the  position  of  guide  to  the  Castle  upon  the  two 
days  a  week  when  tourists  were  allowed  to  walk  through 
the  state  rooms,  and  look  at  the  splendid  carvings  and 
armor  and  pictures,  and  the  collection  of  plate. 

Johnson  had  had  time  to  glance  over  his  master's 
correspondence   that   morning,   which,   with   character- 

8 


THE    ]\IAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

istic  recklessness,  that  gentleman  had  left  upon  his  bed 
while  he  went  to  his  bath,  so  his  servant  knew  the  cause 
of  his  bad  temper,  and  had  been  prudent  and  kept  a 
gt>o(l  (U'ul  out  of  the  way.  But  the  news  was  so  in- 
teresting, he  felt  Alexander  Armstrong  really  ought  to 

share  the  thrill. 

"Mrs.  Hatfield's  husband  is  dying,"  he  announced, 
as  Armstrong,  very  diffidently,  peeped  through  the 
wimlow  from  the  balcony,  and  then,  seeing  no  one 
but  his  friend  the  valet,  entered  the  room. 

Alexander  Armstrong  spoke  in  broad  Scotch,  but  I 
shall  not  attempt  to  transcribe  this  barbaric  language; 
sufficient  to  tell  you  that  he  made  the  excuse  for  his 
intrusion  by  saying  that  he  had  wanted  to  get  some 
order  from  the  master  about  the  tourists. 

"We  shan't  have  any  tourists  when   she's  installed 
here  as  mistress !"  Mr.  Johnson  remarked  sepulchrally. 
Armstrong  was  heard  to   murmur  that  he  did  not 
know  what  Mr.  Johnson  meant !     This  was  too  stupid ! 
"Why,  I  told  you  straight  off  Mrs.  Hatfield's  hus- 
band  is   dying,"   Johnson   exclaimed,   contemptuously. 
"She  wrote  one  of  her  mauve  billy  doos  this  morning, 
telling  the  master  so,  and  suggesting  they'd  soon  be 
able  to  be  married  and  happy — ^pretty  cold-blooded,  I 
call   it,   considering  the  poor  man   is   not   yet   in   his 
grave !" 

Armstrong  was  almost  knocked  over  by  this  state- 
ment;  then  he  laughed — and  what  he  said   meant   in 

4 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

plain  English  that  Mr.  Johnson  need  not  worry  him- 
self, for  no  Arranstoun  had  ever  been  known  to  be 
coerced  into  any  course  of  conduct  which  he  did  not 
desire  himself — not  being  hampered  by  consideration 
for  women,  or  by  any  consideration  but  his  own  will. 
For  the  matter  of  that,  a  headstrong,  ruthless  race  all 
of  them  and,  as  Mr.  Johnson  must  be  very  well  aware, 
their  own  particular  master  was  a  true  chip  of  the  old 
block. 

"See  his  bonny  blue  eye — "  (I  think  he  pronounced 
it  "ee"),  "see  his  mouth  shut  like  a  game  spring.  See 
his  strong  arms  and  his  height!  See  him  smash  the 
boughs  off  trees  when  they  get  in  his  way!  and  then 
tell  me  a  woman's  going  to  get  dominion  over  him.  Go 
along,  Mr.  Johnson !" 

But  Johnson  remained  unconvinced  and  troubled; 
he  had  had  several  unpleasant  proofs  of  woman's  infernal 
cunning  in  his  own  sphere  of  Ufe,  and  Mrs.  Hatfield, 
he  knew,  was  as  well  endowed  with  Eve's  wit  as  any 
French  maid. 

"We'll  ha'  a  bet  about  it  if  you  like,"  Armstrong  re- 
marked, as  he  got  up  to  go,  the  clock  striking  three. 
He  knew  the  first  batch  of  afternoon  tourists  would  be 
clamoring  at  the  gate. 

Mr.  Johnson  looked  at  the  riding-boots  in  his 
hand. 

"He  went  straight  off  for  his  ride  without  tasting  a 
bite  of  breakfast  or  seeing  Mr.  Fordyce,  and  he  didn't 

5 


THE    iMAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

rvliirn  to  luiuli,  and  just  now  I  find  every  article  of 
tli)tliiii^  strewn  upon  the  floor — when  he  came  in  and 
took  another  bath— he  did  not  even  ring  for  me — he 
must  have  ^raUoped  all  the  time;  his  temper  would 
fri/^'htcn  a  fi^^litiii^  cock." 

Mcnnwhile,  ]\Iichacl  Arranstoun  was  tramping  his 
j)ark  with  giant  strides,  and  suddenly  came  upon  his 
friend  and  guest,  Henry  Fordyce,  whose  very  presence 
in  his  house  he  had  forgotten,  so  turbulent  had  his 
thoughts  been  ever  since  the  early  post  came  in.  Henry 
Fordyce  was  a  leisurely  creature,  and  had  come  out 
for  a  stroll  on  the  exquisite  June  day  upon  his  own 
account. 

They  exchanged  a  few  remarks,  and  gradually  got 
biuk  to  Michael's  sitting-room  again,  and  rang  for 
drinks. 

Mr.  Fordyce  had,  by  this  time,  become  quite  aware 
that  an  active  volcano  was  going  on  in  his  friend,  but 
had  waited  for  the  first  indication  of  the  cause.  It 
came  in  the  course  of  a  conversation,  after  the  footman 
had  left  the  room  and  both  men  were  reclining  in  big 
chairs  with  their  iced  whiskey  and  soda. 

"It  is  a  shame  to  stay  indoors  on  such  a  day," 
Henry  said  lazily,  looking  out  upon  the  balcony  and 
the  glittering  sunshine. 

"I  never  saw  anyone  enjoy  a  holiday  like  you  do, 
Henry,"  Michael  retorted,  petulantly.  "I  can't  enjoy 
anytiiing  lately.     'Pon  my  soul,  it  is  worth  going  into 

6 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

Parliament  to  get  such  an  amount  of  pleasure  out  of 
a  week's  freedom." 

But  Henry  did  not  agree  that  it  was  freedom,  when 
even  here  at  Arranstoun  he  had  been  pestered  to 
patronize  the  local  bazaar. 

"The  penalty  of  greatness!  I  wonder  when  you 
will  be  prime  minister.     Lord,  what  a  grind!" 

Mr.  Fordyce  stretched  himself  in  his  chair  and  lit  a 
cigar. 

"It  may  be  a  grind,"  he  said,  meditatively,  "but  it  is 
for  some  definite  idea  of  good — even  if  I  am  a  slave; 
whereas  you! — you  are  tied  and  bound  to  a  woman — 
and  such  a  woman !  You  have  not  been  able  to  call 
your  soul  your  own  since  last  October  as  it  is — and 
before  you  know  where  you  are,  you  will  be  attending 
the  husband's  funeral  and  your  o^ti  wedding  in  the 
same  week !" 

Michael  bounded  from  his  chair  with  an  oath.  "I'll 
be  shot  if  I  do !"  he  said,  and  sat  down  again.  Then 
his  voice  grew  a  little  uncertain,  and  he  went  on: 

"It  is  worrying  me  awfully,  though,  Henry.  If 
poor  old  Maurice  does  puff  out — I  suppose  I  ought  to 
marry  her — I " 

Mr.  Fordyce  stiffened,  and  the  sleepy  look  in  his 
gray  eyes  altered  to  a  flash  of  steel. 

"Let  us  have  a  little  plain  speaking,  Michael,  old 
boy.  It  is  not  as  though  I  do  not  know  the  whole  cir- 
cumstance of  your  affair  with  Violet  Hatfield.    I  warned 

7 


TIIK    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

you  about  hor  in  the  beginning,  when  you  met  her  at 
n,y  sister  Rose's,  but,  as  usual,  you  would  take  your 

own  course ' 

Michael  began  to  speak,  but  checked  himself— and 

Henry  Eonlyce  went  on. 

"I  have  had  a  letter  from  Rose  this  morning — as  you 
of  course  know,  Violet  is  staying  for  this  Whitsuntide 
with  them,  having  dragged  her  wretched  husband,  dy- 
ing of  consumption  as  he  is,  to  this  merry  party.  Well 
— Rose  says  poor  Maurice  is  In  a  terrible  state,  caught 
a  fresh  cold  on  Saturday— and  she  adds,  'So  I  suppose 
we  shall  soon  see  Violet  installed  at  Arranstoun  as 
mistress.' " 

"I  know— I  heard  from  Violet  herself  this  morning," 
and  Michael  put  his  head  down  dejectedly. 

"Ebbswortli  is  only  thirty-five  miles  from  here,"  Mr. 

Fordyce  announced  T^-ith  meaning.     "Violet  can  pop  in 

on  you  at  any  moment,  and  she'll  clinch  the  matter 

and  bind  you  with  her  cobwebs  before  you  can  escape." 

"Oh,  Lord!" 

"You  know  you  are  dead  sick  of  her,  Michael — 
and  you  know  that  I  am  not  the  sort  of  man  who 
would  ever  speak  of  a  woman  thus  without  grave  reason ; 
but  she  does  not  care  for  you  any  more  than  the  half 
a  dozen  others  who  occupied  your  proud  position  be- 
fore your  day — it  is  only  for  money  and  the  glory  of 
having  you  tied  to  her  apron  strings.  It  was  not  any 
good  hammering  on  while  the  passion  was  upon  you; 

8 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

but  I  have  watched  jou,  and  have  seen  that  it  is  wan- 
ing, so  now's  my  time.  With  this  danger  in  front  of 
JOU,  you  have  got  to  pull  yourself  together,  old  boy, 
and  cut  and  run." 

"That  would  be  no  use — "  Then  Michael  stam- 
mered a  little.  "I  say,  Henry,  I  won't  hear  a  word 
against  her.  You  can  thunder  at  me — but  leave  her 
out." 

Mr.  Fordyce  smiled. 

"Did  she  express  deep  grief  at  poor  Maurice's  con- 
dition in  her  letter?"  he  asked. 

"Er — no — not  exactly " 

"I  thought  not — she  probably  suggested  all  sorts  of 
joys  with  you  when  she  is  free!" 

There  was  an  ominous  silence. 

Mr.  Fordyce's  voice  now  took  on  that  crisp  tone 
which  his  adversaries  in  the  House  of  Commons  so  well 
knew  meant  that  they  must  look  to  their  guns. 

"Delightful  woman!  A  spider,  I  tell  you,  a  roar- 
ing hypocrite,  too,  bamboozling  poor  Rose  into  thinking 
her  a  virtuous,  persecuted  little  darling,  with  a  noble 
passion  for  you,  and  my  sister  is  a  downright  person 
not  easily  fooled.  At  this  moment,  Violet  is  probably 
shedding  tears  on  her  shoulder  over  poor  Maurice, 
while  she  is  plotting  how  soon  she  can  become  mistress 
of  Arranstoun.  Good  God!  when  I  think  of  it — I 
would  rather  get  in  a  girl  from  the  village  and  go 
through  the  ceremony  with  her,  and  make  myself  safe, 

9 


'I'm:    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

tlmn  have  the  ])rospect  of  Violet  Hatfield  as  a  wife. 
Michael,  I  tell  you  seriously,  dear  boy — you  won't  have 
tJie  ghost  of  a  chance  if  you  are  still  unmarried  when 
poor  Maurice  dies !" 

Michael  hounded  from  his  chair  once  more.  He  was 
perfectly  furious — furious  with  the  situation — furious 
with  the  woman — furious  with  himself. 

"Confound  it,  Henry,  I — know  it — but  it  does  not 
mend  matters  your  ranting  there — and  I  am  so  sorry 
for  tJie  poor  chap — INIaurice,  I  mean — a  very  decent 
fellow,  poor  Maurice!  Can't  you  suggest  any  way 
out?" 

Mr.  Fordyce  mused  a  moment,  while  he  deliberately 
puffed  smoke,  Michael's  impatience  increasing  so 
that  he  ran  his  hands  through  his  dark,  smooth  hair, 
whose  shiny,  immaculate  brushing  was  usually  his 
pride ! 

"Can't  3'ou  suggest  a  way  out?"  he  reiterated. 

Mr.  Fordyce  did  not  reply — then  after  a  moment: 
**You  were  always  too  much  occupied  with  women, 
Michael — from  your  first  scrape  when  you  left  Eton; 
and  over  this  affair  you  have  been  a  complete  fool." 

Michael  was  heard  to  swear  again. 

**You  have  been  inconsistent,  too,  because  you  did 
not  even  employ  your  usual  ruthless  methods  of  doing 
what  you  pleased  with  them.  You  have  simply  drifted 
into  allowing  this  vile  creature's  cobwebs  to  cling  on 
to  your  whole  existence  until  you  are  almost  paralyzed, 

10 


THE  MAX  AND  THE  MOMENT 

and  it  seems  to  me  that  an  immediate  marriage  with 
someone  else  is  your  only  way  of  escape.  Such  a 
waste  of  your  life !  Just  analyze  the  position.  You 
have  everything  in  the  world,  this  glorious  place — an 
old  name — money — prestige — and  if  your  inclinations 
do  run  to  the  material  side  of  things  instead  of  the  in- 
tellectual, they  are  still  successful  in  their  demonstra- 
tion. No  one  has  a  better  eye  for  a  horse,  or  is  a 
finer  shot.  The  best  at  driven  grouse  for  your  age, 
my  boy,  I  have  ever  seen.  You  are  full  of  force, 
Michael,  and  ought  to  do  some  decent  thing — instead 
of  which  you  spoil  the  whole  outlook  by  fooling  after 
this  infernal  woman — and  you  have  not  now  the  pluck 
to  cut  the  Gordian  knot.  She  will  drag  you  to  the 
lowest  depths " 

Then  he  laughed.  "And  only  think  of  that  voice 
in  one's  ears  all  day  long!  I  would  rather  marry  old 
Bessie  at  the  South  Lodge.  She  is  eighty-four,  she 
tells  me,  and  would  soon  leave  you  a  widower." 

The  first  ray  of  hope  shot  into  Michael's  bright  blue 
eyes — and  he  exclaimed  with  a  kind  of  joy,  as  he  seized 
Binko,  his  bulldog,  by  his  fat,  engaging  throat: 

"Bessie !  Old  Bessie —  By  Jove,  what  an  idea ! — 
the  very  thing.  She'd  do  it  for  me  like  a  shot,  dear 
old  body !" 

Binko  gurgled  and  slobbered  in  sympathy. 

"She  would  be  kind  to  you,  too,  Binko.  She  would 
not  say  she  found  your  hairs  on  every  chair,  and  that 

11 


'I'm:    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

you  (Iril)l)lr(l  on  luT  dress!  She  would  not  tell  your 
nwistor  tluit  lie  loft  bis  cigarette-ash  about,  and  she 
Imted  the  snuU   of  smoke!     She  would  not  want  this 

room  for  her  boudoir,  she " 

'J1icn  he  stopped  his  flow  of  words,  suddenly  catch- 
\ufr  sight  of  the  whimsical,  sardonic  smile  upon  his 
friend's  face. 

"Oh,  I>ord!"  he  mumbled,  contritely.  "I  had  for- 
gotten you  were  here,  Henry.     I  am  so  jolly  upset." 

"This  heartlessness  about  poor  Maurice  has  finished 
you,  eh?"  Mr.  Fordyce  suggested.  He  felt  he  might 
be  gaining  his  end. 

Michael  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
"It  seems  so  ghastly  to  think  of  marriage  with  the 
poor  chap  not  yet  dead — I  am  fairly  knocked  over — 
it  really  is  the  last  straw — ^but  she  will  cry  and  make  a 
scene — and  she  has  certainly  arguments — and  it  will 
make  one  feel  such  a  cad  to  leave  her." 

"She  wrote  that — did  she? — wrote  of  marriage  and 
her  husband's  last  attack  of  hemorrhage  in  the  same 
paragraph,  I  suppose.  Michael,  it  is  revolting!  My 
dear  boy,  you  must  break  away  from  her — and  then 
do  try  to  occupy  yourself  with  more  important  things 
tlian  women.  Believe  me,  they  are  all  very  well  in 
their  way  and  in  their  proper  place — to  be  treated  with 
the  greatest  courtesy  and  respect  as  wives  and  mothers 
— even  loved,  if  you  will,  for  a  recreation — but  as  vital 
factors  in  a  man's  real  life!     My  dear  fellow,  the  idea 

12 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

is  ridiculous — that  life  should  be  for  his  country  and 
the  development  of  his  own  soul " 

Michael  Arranstoun  laughed. 

"Jolly  old  Mohammedan !  You  think  women  have 
none,  I  suppose !" 

Henry  Fordyce  frowned,  because  it  was  rather  true 
— but  he  denied  the  charge. 

"Nothing  of  the  sort.  Merely,  I  see  things  at  their 
proper  balance  and  you  cannot." 

Michael  leaned  back  in  his  chair;  he  was  quieter  for 
a  moment. 

"I  only  see  what  I  want  to  see,  Henry — and  I  am 
a  savage — I  cannot  help  it — we  have  always  been  so. 
When  I  fancy  a  woman,  I  must  obtain  her — when  I 
want  a  horse,  I  must  have  it.  It  is  always  must — and 
we  have  not  done  so  badly.  We  still  possess  our  shoul- 
ders and  chins  and  strength  after  eleven  hundred  years 
of  it!"  and  he  stretched  out  a  splendid  arm,  with  a 
force  which  could  have  felled  an  ox. 

An  undoubtedly  fine  specimen  of  British  manhood  he 
looked,  sitting  there  in  the  June  sunlight,  which  came 
in  a  shaft  from  the  south  mullioned  window  in  the  cor- 
ner beyond  the  great  fireplace,  the  space  between  oc- 
cupied by  a  large  picture  of  uncertain  date,  depicting 
the  landing  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  in  her  northern 
kingdom. 

His  eyes  roamed  to  this. 

"One  of  my  ancestors   was   among  that  party,"  he 

18 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

said,  pointing  to  u  figure.  "He  had  just  killed  a  More- 
loji  and  stolen  his  wife,  that  is  why  he  looks  so  perky — 
tlie  fellow  ill  the  hlue  doublet." 

I\Ir.  Eordyce  rose  from  his  chair  and  fired  his  last 

shot. 

*'And  now  a  female  spider  is  going  to  paralyze  the 
last  Arranstoun,  and  rule  him  for  the  rest  of  his  days, 
sapping  his  vitality." 

But  Michael  protested. 

"By  heaven,  no !" 

"Well,  I'll  leave  you  to  think  about  it.  I  am  going 
for  another  stroll  on  this  lovely  day."  He  had  got  to 
the  window  by  this  time,  which  looked  into  the  court- 
3-ard  on  the  opposite  side  to  the  balcony.  "Goodness ! 
what  a  party  of  tourists !  It  is  a  bore  for  you  to  have 
them  all  over  the  place  like  this !  To  own  a  castle 
with  state  rooms  to  be  shown  to  the  public  has  its  dis- 
advantages." 

Michael  looked  at  them,  too,  a  large  party  of  Ameri- 
cans, mostly  of  that  class  which  compose  the  tourists 
of  all  countries,  and  which  no  nation  feels  proud  to 
own.  He  had  seen  hundreds  of  such,  and  turned  away 
indiflTcrcntly. 

"They  only  come  here  twice  a  week,  and  it  has  been 
allowed  for  such  ages — they  are  generally  quiet,  and 
fortunately  their  perambulations  close  at  the  end  of 
the  gallery.  They  don't  intrude  upon  my  own  suite. 
They  get  to  the  chapel  by  the  outside  door." 

14 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

Henry  crossed  the  room  and  went  on  to  the  balcony. 

"Mrs.  Hatfield  will  alter  all  that,"  he  laughed,  as  he 
disappeared  from  view. 

Michael  flashed  a  rageful  glance  at  his  back,  and 
then  flung  himself  into  his  great  armchair  again,  and 
pulled  the  wrinkled  mass,  which  called  itself  a  prize 
bulldog,  on  to  his  lap. 

"I  believe  he's  right  and  we  are  caught,  Binko.  If 
we  fled  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  she  would  track  us. 
If  we  stay  and  face  it,  she'll  make  an  almighty  scandal 
and  force  us  to  marry  her.  What  in  the  devil's  name 
are  we  to  do !" 

Binko  licked  his  master's  hands,  and  made  noises 
so  full  of  gurgling,  slobbering  sympathy,  no  heart 
could  have  remained  uncomforted.  Who  knows ! 
His  canine  common  sense  may  have  telepathically  trans- 
mitted a  thought,  for  IMichael  suddenly  plopped  him 
on  the  floor,  and  stalked  toward  the  fireplace  to  ring 
the  bell,  while  he  exclaimed,  as  though  answering  a 
suggestion.  "Yes,  we'll  send  for  old  Bessie — that's 
the  only  way." 

But  before  he  could  reach  his  goal,  the  picture  of 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  landing  fell  forward  with  a 
crash,  and  through  the  aperture  of  a  secret  door  which 
it  concealed,  there  tumbled  a  very  young  and  pretty 
girl  right  into  the  room. 


m 


CHAPTER    II 

K.  ARRANSTOUN  was  extremely  startled 
and  annoyed,  too,  and  before  he  took  in  the 
situation,  he  had  exclaimed,  while  Binko  gave 
an  ominous  growl  of  displeasure: 

"Confound  it — who  is  that!  These  are  private 
rooms!"  Then,  seeing  it  was  a  girl  on  the  floor,  he 
said  in  anotlier  voice:  "Quiet,  Binko — "  and  the  dog 
retired  to  his  own  basket  under  a  distant  table.  "Oh, 
I  beg  your  pardon — but " 

The  creature  on  the  floor  blinked  at  Michael  with 
large,  round,  violet  eyes,  but  did  not  move,  while  she 
answered  aggricvedly — with  a  very  faint  accent, 
whether  a  little  French  or  a  little  American,  or  a  little 
of  both,  he  was  not  sure,  only  that  it  had  something 
attractive  about  it. 

"You  may  well  say  'but'!  I  did  not  mean  to  in- 
trude upon  your  private  room — but  I  had  to  run  away 
from  Mr.  Grccnbank — he  was  so  horrid — "  here  she 
gasped  a  little  for  breath — "and  I  happened  to  see 
something  like  a  door  ajar  in  the  Gainsborough  room, 
so  I  fled  through  it,  and  it  fastened  after  me  with  a 

16 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

snap — I  could  not  open  it  again — and  it  was  pitch 
dark  in  that  dreadful  passage  and  not  a  scrap  of 
air — I  felt  suffocated,  and  I  pushed  on  anywhere — 
and  something  gave  way  and  I  fell  in  here — that's 
all " 

She  rattled  this  out  without  a  stop,  and  then  stared 
at  Michael  with  her  big,  childish  eyes,  but  did  not  at- 
tempt to  rise  from  the  floor. 

He  walked  toward  her  and  held  out  his  hand,  and 
with  ceremonious  and  ironical  politeness,  he  began: 

"May  I  not  help  you — I  could  offer  you  a 
chair " 

She  interruped  him  while  she  struggled  up,  refusing 
his  proffered  hand. 

"I've  knocked  myself  against  your  nasty  table — why 
do  you  have  it  in  that  place !" 

Michael  sat  down  upon  the  edge  of  it,  and  went  on 
in  his  ironical  tone: 

"Had  I  known  I  was  to  have  the  honor  of  this  visit, 
I  should  certainly  have  had  it  moved." 

"There  is  no  use  being  sarcastic,"  the  girl  said, 
almost  crying  now.  "It  hurts  very  much,  and — and — 
I  want  to  go  home." 

Mr.  Arranstoun  pushed  a  comfortable  monster  seat 
toward  her,  and  said  more  sympathetically: 

"I  am  very  sorry — but  where  is  home?" 

The  girl  sank  into  the  chair,  and  smoothed  out  her 
pink  cotton  frock;  the  skimpy  skirt  (not  as  narrow  as 

17 


Tin:    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

in  tlu'so  il.iys,  but  still  short  and  spare!)  showed  a 
perfect  pair  of  feet  and  ankles. 

"She's  American,  of  course,  then,"  Michael  said  to 
himself,  observing  these,  "and  quite  pretty  if  that 
snuidge  of  grime  was  off  her  face." 

She  was  looking  at  him  now  with  her  large,  innocent 
C3*cs,  which  contained  no  shadow  of  gene  over  the  un- 
usual situation,  and  then  she  answered  quite  simply: 

"I  haven't  a  home,  you  know — I'm  just  staying  at 
the  Inn  with  Uncle  Mortimer  and  Aunt  Jemima  and — 
and — Mr.  Grecnbank — and  we  are  tourists,  I  suppose, 
and  were  looking  at  the  pictures — ^when — when  I  had 
to  run  away." 

Michael  felt  a  little  piqued  with  curiosity;  she  was 
a  diversion  after  his  perplexing,  irritating  meditations. 

"It  would  be  so  interesting  to  hear  why  you  ran 
away — the  whole  story?"  he  suggested. 

The  girl  turned  her  head  and  looked  out  of  the 
window,  showing  a  dear  little  baby  profile,  and  masses 
of  light  brown  hair  rolled  up  anyhow  at  the  back.  She 
did  not  look  older  than  seventeen  at  the  outside,  and 
was  peculiarly  childish  and  slender  for  that. 

"But  I  should  have  to  tell  you  from  the  beginning, 
and  it  is  so  long — and  you  are  a  stranger." 

Michael  drew  another  chair  nearer  to  her,  and  sat 
down,  while  his  manner  took  on  a  note  of  grave,  elderly 
concern,  which  rather  belied  the  twinkle  of  mischief  in 
his  e3'cs. 

18 


THE    jVlAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

"Never  mind  that — I  am  sympathetic,  and  I  am 
your  host — and,  by  Jove! — won't  you  have  some  tea! 
You  look  awfully  tired  and — dusty,"  and  he  rang  the 
bell,  and  then  reseated  himself.  "See,  to  be  quite  or- 
thodox, -we  will  make  our  own  introduction — I  am 
Michael  Arranstoun — and  you  are ?" 

The  girl  rose  and  made  him  a  polite  bow.  "I  am 
Sabine  Delburg,"  she  announced.  He  bowed  also — 
and  then  she  went  into  a  peal  of  silvery  laughter  that 
seemed  to  contain  all  the  glad  notes  of  spring  and 
youth.  "Oh,  this  is  fun!  and  I — I  should  like  some 
tea!"  She  caught  sight  of  herself  in  an  old  mirror, 
which  stood  upon  a  commode.  "Goodness,  what  a  guy 
I  look!  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  my  hat  was 
crooked !"  She  settled  it  straight,  and  began  searching 
for  a  handkerchief  up  her  sleeve  and  in  her  belt,  but 
none  was  to  be  found. 

So  Mr.  Arranstoun  handed  her  a  clean  one  he 
chanced  to  have  in  his  pocket.  "I  expect  you  want 
to  wipe  the  smudge  of  dirt  off  your  face,"  he  haz- 
arded. 

She  took  it  laughing,  and  showing  an  even  row  of 
beautiful  teeth  between  red,  full  baby  lips. 

"You  are  the  owmer  of  this  castle,"  she  went  on,  as 
she  gave  firm  rubs  at  the  velvet  pink  cheeks.  "That 
must  be  nice.  You  can  do  what  you  like,  I  suppose," 
and  here  a  sigh  of  regret  escaped  and  made  her  voice 
lower. 

19 


Tin:    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

"I  wish  I  could,"  Mr.  Airanstoun  answered  feel- 
ingly. 

"Well,  if  I  were  a  man,  I  would!" 

"Wlmt  would  you  do?" 

She  turned  and  faced  him,  while  she  said,  with  ex- 
treme solemnity: 

"I  should  never  marry  Mr.  Grecnbank." 

Michael  laughed. 

''I  don't  suppose  you  would  if  you  were  a  man !" 
At  tliis  moment,  a  footman  answered  the  bell.  "Bring 
tea,  please,"  his  master  ordered,  inwardly  amused  at 
the  servant's  astonished  face,  and  then  when  they  were 
alone  again,  he  continued  his  sympathetic  questioning. 

"Who  is  Mr.  Grecnbank?  You  had  to  flee  from 
him — you  said  he  was  horrid,  I  believe?" 

Miss  Delburg  had  removed  her  hat,  and  was  trying 
to  tidy  her  hair  before  readjusting  it;  she  had  the  hat- 
pin in  her  mouth,  but  took  it  out  to  answer  vehe- 
mently : 

"So  he  is,  a  pig!  And  I  went  and  got  engaged  to 
him  this  morning!  You  see,"  turning  to  the  glass 
again,  quite  unembarrassed,  "I  can't  get  my  money  un- 
til I  am  married — and  Uncle  is  so  disagreeable,  and  Aunt 
Jemima  nags  all  day  long,  and  it  was  left  in  Papa's 
will  that  I  was  to  live  with  them — and  I  don't  come  of 
age  until  I  am  twenty-one,  but  I  can  get  the  money 
directly  if  I  maiTy — I  was  seventeen  in  May,  and  of 
course   no    one   could   stand    it   till   twenty-one!     Mr. 

20 


THE    ]MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

Greenbank  is  the  only  person  who  has  asked  me,  and 
Aunt  Jemima  says  no  one  else  ever  will!  I  have  been 
out  of  the  Convent  for  a  whole  month,  and  I  can't 
bear  it." 

Michael  was  beginning  really  to  enjoy  himself.  She 
was  something  so  fresh,  so  entirely  different  to  any- 
thing he  had  ever  seen  in  his  life  before.  There  was 
nothing  of  shyness  or  awkwardness  in  her  manner,  as 
any  English  girl  would  have  shown.  She  was  abso- 
lutely at  ease,  with  a  childish,  confiding  innocence  which 
he  saw  plainly  was  real,  and  not  put  on  for  his  benefit. 
It  was  almost  incredible  in  these  up-to-date  days.  A 
most  engaging  morsel  of  seventeen  summers,  he  decided, 
as  he  answered  with  over-grave  concern: 

"What  a  hard  fate ! — but  you  have  not  told  me  yet 
why  you  ran  away!" 

The  girl  had  finished  her  toilet  by  now,  and  reseated 
herself  with  a  grown-up  air  in  the  big  armchair. 

*'0h!  well,  he  was  just — horrid — that  was  all,"  and 
then  abruptly  turning  the  conversation,  "It  is  a  nice 
place  you  have  here,  and  it  does  feel  lovely  doing  some- 
thing wrong  like  this — ^having  tea  with  you,  I  mean. 
You  know,  I  have  never  spoken  to  a  young  man  be- 
fore. The  Nuns  always  told  us  they  were  dreadful 
creatures — but  you  don't  look  so  bad — "  and  she  ex- 
amined her  host  critically. 

Michael  accepted  the  implied  appreciation. 

"What  is  Mr.  Greenbank,  then?" 

21 


Tin:    MAx\    AND    THE    MOMENT 

The  silver  lau^fli  rfing  out  again,  while  she  jumped 
up  and  peeped  from  the  window  into  the  courtyard. 

"Samuel — he's  only  a  thing!  Oh!  Uncle  and  Aunt 
would  be  so  angry  if  they  could  see  me  here!  And  I 
expect  they  are  nil  in  a  fine  fuss  now  to  know  what  has 
happened  to  me!  They  never  saw  me  go  through 
the  door,  and  I  hope  they  think  that  I've  committed 
suicide  out  of  one  of  the  windows.  Look !"  and  she 
danced  excitedly,  "there  is  Uncle  talking  to  the  com- 
missionaire.    Oh,  what  fun!" 

Mr.  Arranstoun  peeped,  too — and  saw  a  spare,  el- 
derly American  of  grim  appearance  in  anxious  confab 
with  Alexander  Armstrong. 

The  whole  situation  struck  him  as  delightful,  and 
he  laughed  gaily,  while  he  suggested:  "You  are  per- 
haps rather  a  difficult  charge.'"' 

Miss  Delburg  resented  this  at  once. 

"What  an  idea !  How  would  you  like  to  marry  Mr. 
Greenbank,  or  stay  with  Aunt  Jemima  for  four  years!" 

"Well,  you  see,  I  can't  comtemplate  it,  as  I  am  not 
a  girl!" 

Ag.iln  those  white  teeth  showed,  and  the  violet  eyes 
were  suffused  with  laughter. 

"No!  Of  course  not.  How  silly  I  am — but  I 
mean,  how  would  you  care  to  be  forced  to  do  something 
you  did  not  like?" 

Michael  thought  of  his  own  fate. 

"By  Jove!     I  should  hate  it!" 

22 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

"Well — you  can  understand  me!" 

Then  the  door  opened,  and  the  butler  and  footman 
brought  in  the  tea,  eyeing  their  master's  guest  furtive- 
ly, while  they  maintained  that  superbly  aloof  manner 
of  well-bred  English  servants.  The  pause  their  en- 
trance caused  gave  Mr.  Arranstoun  time  to  think,  and 
an  idea  gradually  began  to  unfold  itself  in  his  brain — 
and  unconsciously  he  took  out,  and  then  replaced  in 
his  breast  pocket,  a  mauve,  closely-written  letter,  while 
a  frown  of  deep  cogitation  crept  over  his  face. 

Miss  Delburg,  for  her  part,  was  only  thrilled  with 
the  sight  of  the  very  agreeable  tea,  and  after  waiting 
a  moment  to  see  what  her  preoccupied  host  would  do 
when  the  servants  left  the  room,  hunger  forced  her  to 
fall  to  the  temptation  of  a  particularly  appetizing 
chocolate  cake,  which  she  surreptitiously  seized,  and 
began  munching  with  the  frank  joy  of  a  child. 

"I  do  love  them !"  she  sighed,  "and  we  never  were 
allowed  them,  only  once  a  month  after  Moravia  Cloud- 
water  got  that  awful  toothache,  and  had  to  have  a  big 
grinder  pulled  out." 

Michael  was  paying  no  attention  to  her;  he  had 
walked  rapidly  up  and  dowm  the  room  once  or  twice, 
much  to  her  astonishment. 

At  last  he  spoke. 

"I  have  an  idea — but  first  let  me  give  you  some  tea — 
No — do  help  yourself,"  then  he  paused  awkwardly,  and 
she  at  once  proceeded  to  fill  her  cup. 

28 


Till":    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

Hinko  li.'ul  condescended  to  emerge  from  his  basket 
under  tlie  tuhle.  Tea-time  was  an  hour  when  he  al- 
h)wcd  himself  to  take  an  interest  in  human  beings. 

**()li!  you  darling!"  the  girl  cried,  putting  down 
her  cup.    "You  f.it,  lovely,  wrinkly  darling!" 

"He  is  a  nice  dog,"  his  master  admitted;  his  voice 
was  actually  nervous — and  he  pulled  Binko  to  him  by 
his  solid,  fleshy  paws,  while  he  sat  down  in  his  chair 
again. 

Miss  Di'lburg  had  got  back  into  her  seat,  where  she 
munched  a  cake  and  continued  her  tea.  The  chair  was 
so  deep  and  long  that  her  little  bits  of  feet  did  not 
nearly  reach  the  ground,  but  dangled  there. 

"Mayn't  I  pour  you  out  some,  too.?"  she  asked, 
getting  forward  again.  "I  do  love  to  pour  out 
— and  do  you  take  sugar — ?  I  like  lumps  and  lumps 
of  it." 

*'0h — er — yes,"  Michael  agreed  absently,  and  then 
he  went  on  with  the  determined  air  of  a  person  getting 
something  off  his  chest.  "I  hardly  know  how  to  say 
what  I  am  thinking  of,  it  sounds  so  strange.  Listen — 
I  also  must  marry  someone — anyone — to  avert  a  fate 
I  don't  want — What  do  you  say  to  marrying  me?" 

The  teapot  came  down  into  the  tray  with  a  bump, 
while  the  round,  childish  eyes  grew  like  saucers  with 
astonishment. 
"Oh  I" 

"I  dare  say  it  does  surprise  you — "  Michael  then 

24 


THE    ]\IAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

hastened  to  add.  "I  mean,  we  should  only  go  through 
the  ceremony,  of  course,  and  you  could  get  your  money 
and  I  my  freedom." 

The  girl  clasped  her  hands  round  her  knees. 

"And  I  should  never  have  to  see  you  again.?"  in  a 
glad  voice  of  comprehension. 

Michael  leaned  forward  nearer  to  her. 

"Well — no — never,  unless  you  wished." 

Miss  Delburg  actually  kicked  her  feet  with  delight. 

"It  is  a  perfectly  splendid  suggestion,"  she  an- 
nounced. "We  could  just  oblige  one  another  in  this 
way,  and  need  never  see  or  speak  to  each  other  again. 
What  made  it  come  into  your  head?  Do  you  really 
think  we  could  do  that — Oh !  how  rude  of  me — ^I've  for- 
gotten to  pour  out  your  tea !" 

"Never  mind,  talking  about — our  marriage — is  more 
interesting,"  and  Mr.  Arranstoun's  blue  eyes  filled  with 
mischievous  appreciation  of  the  situation,  even  beyond 
the  seriousness  of  the  discussion  he  meant  to  carry  to 
an  end.  But  this  aspect  did  not  so  much  concern  Miss 
Delburg,  as  that  she  had  let  slip  a  particular  pleasure 
for  the  moment,  that  of  being  allowed  a  teapot  in  her 
own  hand,  instead  of  being  given  a  huge  bowl  of  milk 
with  a  drop  of  weak  coffee  mixed  in  it,  and  watching  a 
like  fate  fall  upon  her  companions. 

When  this  delightful  business  was  accomplished  to 
her  satisfaction,  her  sweet  little  round  face  a  model  of 
serious    responsibility    the   while,   she   handed    Michael 

25 


rili:    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

till-   lup   luul    drew    herself   back   once   more   into   the 
(loptli  of  the  ^nant  chair. 

"I  can't  behave  nicely  in  this  great  creature,"  she 
said,  patting  the  fat  cushioned  arms,  "and  the  Mother 
Sujierior  would  be  liorribly  shocked,  but  don't  let's 
mind.  Now,  do  tell  me  something  about  this  plan. 
You  see,"  gravely,  "I  really  don't  know  the  world  very 
well  yet — I  have  always  been  at  the  Convent  near 
Tours  until  a  month  ago — even  in  the  holidays,  since  I 
was  seven — and  the  Sisters  never  told  me  anything 
about  outside,  except  that  it  was  a  place  of  pitfalls 
and  that  men  were  dreadful  creatures.  I  was  very 
happ}'  there,  except  I  wanted  to  get  out  all  the  time, 
anil  when  I  did  and  found  Uncle  and  Aunt  more  tire- 
some than  the  Sisters — there  seemed  no  help  for  it — 
only  Mr.  Grecnbank.  So  I  accepted  him  this  morning. 
But — "  and  this  awful  thought  caused  her  whole  coun- 
tenance to  change.  "Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  the 
usual  getting  married  means  you  would  have  to  stay 
witii  the  man — wouldn't  you.''  And  he  wants — ^he 
wants  to  kiss — I  mean,"  hurriedly,  "you  would  be 
lovely  to  marry  because  I  would  never  have  to  see  you 
again  !" 

Michael  Arranstoun  put  his  head  back  and  laughed; 
she  was  perfectly  delicious — he  began  to  dislike  Mr. 
Grecnbank. 

His  tea  was  quite  forgotten. 

"Er — of  course  not,"  he  agreed.     "Well,  I  could  get 

26 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

a  special  license,  if  you  could  tell  me  exactly  how  you 
stand,  and  3'our  whole  name  and  your  parents'  names, 
and  everything,  and  we  could  get  their  consent — but  I 
conclude  your  father,  at  least,  is  no  longer  alive." 

Miss  Delburg  had  a  very  gro\vTi-up  air  now. 

"No,  my  parents  are  both  dead,"  she  told  him. 
"Papa  three  years  ago,  and  Mamma  for  ages,  and  I 
never  saw  them  much  anyhow.  They  were  always 
travelling  about,  and  Mamma  was  a  Frenchwoman  and 
a  Catholic.  Her  family  did  not  speak  to  her  because 
she  married  a  Protestant  and  an  American.  And  the 
worry  it  was  for  me  being  brought  up  in  a  convent! 
because  Papa  would  have  me  a  Protestant,  so  I  do  be- 
lieve I  have  got  a  Httle  religion  of  my  own  that  is  not 
like  either!" 

"Yes?" 

She  continued  her  narrative  in  the  intervals  of  the 
joy  of  munching  another  cake. 

"Papa  was  very  rich,  and  it's  all  mine —  Only  it 
appears  he  did  not  approve  of  the  freedom  of  Ameri- 
can women — and  so  tied  it  up  so  that  I  can't  get  it 
until  I  am  an  old  maid  of  twenty-one — or  get  married. 
Is  it  not  disgusting?" 

Michael's  thoughts  were  now  concentrating  upon  the 
vital  points. 

"But  have  you  not  got  a  guardian  or  something?" 

"Not  exactly.  Only  an  old  lawyer  person  who  is 
now  in  London.     I  have  seen  Papa's  will,  and  I  know 

27 


Tin:    .AIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

I  c'un  nmrry  wlien  and  whom  I  like  if  I  get  his  consent — 
niul  ho  would  give  it  in  a  minute,  he  is  sick  of  me!" 

"How  fortunate!"  Then  restlessness  seized  him 
nfjain,  .uul  he  got  up,  gulped  down  his  tea,  and  began 
his  pacing. 

"I  do  think  it  would  be  a  good  plan,  and  we  must 
do  it  if  we  can  get  this  person's  leave — ^Yes,  and  do  it 
quickly  before  we  change  our  minds,  or  something  in- 
terferes. Everyone  would  think  we  were  perfectly  mad, 
but  as  it  suits  us  both,  that  is  no  one's  business — Only 
— you  are  rather  young — and  er — I  don't  know  Green- 
bank.     You  are  sure  he  is  horrid  ?" 

The  girl  clasped  her  hands  together  with  force. 
"Sure !  I  should  think  so —  He  wears  glasses,  and 
has  nasty,  scrabbly  bits  of  fur  on  his  face,  which  he 
thinks  is  a  beard,  and  he  is  pompous  and  he  talks  like 
this,"  and  she  imitated  a  precise  Boston  voice.  'My 
dear  Sabine — have  you  considered,'  and  he  is  lanky — 
and  Oil !  I  detest  him,  and  I  can't  imagine  why  I  ever 
said  I  would  marry  him — but  if  I  don't,  what  am  I  to  do 
with  Aunt  Jemima  for  four  years !  I  should  die  of  it." 
Michael  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table  and  looked  at 
her  long  and  deeply.  He  took  in  the  childish  picture 
she  made  in  the  big  chair.  He  had  no  definite  appre- 
ciation then  of  her  charm,  his  mind  was  too  fixed  upon 
what  seemed  a  prospect  of  certain  escape  from  Violet 
Hatfield  and  her  cunning  thirty  years  of  experience. 
This   young  thing  could  not  interfere  with  him,  and 

28 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

divorces  in  Scotland  were  not  impossible  things — they 
would  both  gain  what  they  wanted  for  the  time,  and  it 
was  a  fair  bargain.     So  he  said,  after  a  moment : 

"I  will  go  up  to  London  to-morrow,  and  if  it  is  as 
you  say  that  you  are  free  to  marry  whom  and  when 
you  will,  I  will  try  to  get  this  old  lawyer's  consent  and 
a  special  license — But  how  about  your  Uncle?  Has 
he  not  any  legal  right  over  you?" 

Miss  Delburg  laughed  contentedly. 

"Not  in  the  least — only  that  I  have  to  live  with  hira 
until  I  am  married.  IMr.  Parsons — that's  the  lawyer's 
name — hates  him,  and  he  hates  INlr.  Parsons.  So  I 
know  Mr.  Parsons  will  be  delighted  to  spite  him  by 
giving  his  consent,  if  you  just  say  Uncle  Mortimer  is 
tr^'ing  to  force  me  into  a  marriage  against  my  will  with 
his  nephew — Samuel  Greenbank  is  his  nephew,  you 
know — no  relation  to  me.  It  is  Aunt  Jemima  who  is 
Papa's  sister." 

All  this  seemed  quite  convincing.  Michael  felt  re- 
lieved. 

"I  see,"  he  said.  "Well,  it  appears  simple  enough. 
I  believe  I  could  be  back  by  Thursday,  and  I  could 
have  my  chaplain  and  a  friend  of  mine,  and  we  could 
get  the  affair  over  in  the  chapel — and  then  you  can 
go  back  to  the  Inn  with  your  certificate — and  I  can  go 
to  Paris — free!"  And  his  thoughts  added,  "And  even 
if  poor  Maurice  does  die  soon,  I  need  fear  nothing!" 

Now  that  their  two  fates  seemed  settled,  Miss  Del- 

29 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

bur^  ^ot  out.  of  the  chair  and  stood  up  in  a  dignified 
way ;  lier  soft  cliceks  were  the  color  of  a  glowing  pink 
rose,  and  her  violet  eyes  shone  with  fun  and  excitement, 
her  little,  irregular  features  and  perfect  teeth  seemed 
to  add  to  the  infantine  aspect  of  the  picture  she  made 
in  her  unfashionable  pink  cotton  frock.  Dress  had 
been  strongly  discouraged  at  the  Convent,  and  was 
looked  upon  by  Aunt  Jemima,  a  strict  New  Englandcr, 
as  a  snare  of  the  devil,  but  even  the  garment,  in  the 
selecting  of  wliich  she  had  had  no  hand,  seemed  to  hang 
witli  grace  upon  the  child's  slim  figure. 

Not  a  doubt  as  to  the  future  clouded  her  thoughts; 
it  was  all  a  glorious  piece  of  fun,  and  of  all  the  daring 
tricks  she  had  perpetrated  at  the  Convent  to  get  choco- 
lates, or  climb  a  tree,  or  have  a  midnight  orgy  of  cake 
and  sirop,  none  had  been  so  exciting  as  this — to  go 
through  the  ceremony  of  marriage  and  be  free  for  life ! 

Her  education  had  been  of  the  most  elementary,  and 
the  whole  aim  of  those  placed  over  her  had  been  to 
keep  her  as  innocent  and  ignorant  as  a  child  of  ten. 
Not  a  single  problem  of  life  had  ever  presented  itself 
to  her  naturally  intelligent  mind.  She  had  read  no 
books,  conversed  with  no  grown-up  people,  played  with 
no  one  but  her  companions,  three  American  girls  and  a 
few  French  ones,  and  the  simple  Nuns.  And  since  her 
emancipation,  she  had  but  wandered  in  the  English 
lakes  with  her  uncle  and  aunt  and  Samuel  Greenbank, 
and  so  had  come  to  Arranstoun  like  any  other  tourist 

80 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

to   see  this   famous   castle   still  inhabited  after  eleven 
hundred  years. 

In  these  days  of  women  giving  daily  proof  of  their 
capability  for  irritating  mischief,  if  not  of  their  ability 
to  rule  nations,  Sabine  Delburg  was  a  very  unique  be- 
ing, and  could  not  have  existed  but  for  a  combination 
of  rare  circumstances,  as  she  was  half  American  and 
half  French  and  had  inherited  the  quick  understanding 
of  both  nations.  But  from  the  age  of  seven,  she  had 
never  seen  the  outside  world.  It  is  not  my  place,  in 
any  case,  to  explain  what  she  was  or  was  not.  The 
creature,  with  all  her  faults  and  charms,  is  there  to 
speak  for  herself — and  if  you,  my  friend,  who  are  read- 
ing this  tale  on  a  summer's  day  do  not  feel  you  want 
to  hear  any  more  of  what  happened  to  these  two  young 
things,  by  all  means  put  down  the  book  and  go  your 
way! 

So  let  us  get  back  to  Mr.  Arranstoun's  sitting- 
room  and  the  June  afternoon,  and  we  shall  hear  Miss 
Delburg  saying,  in  her  childish  voice  of  joy: 

"Nothing  could  be  better — I  always  did  like  doing 
mad  things.  It  will  be  the  greatest  fun!  Think  of 
their  faces  when  I  prance  in  and  say  I  am  married! 
Then  I  will  snap  my  fingers  at  them  and  go  off  and  see 
the  world." 

Michael  knelt  upon  a  low  old  prie  dieu  which  was 
near,  and  looked  into  her  face — while  he  asked,  whim- 
sically : 

81 


THE    xAIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT, 

"I  do  woiulor  T\hcre  you  will  begin." 

Miss  Dclburg  now  sat  upon  the  edge  of  the  table; 
tliis  was  a  grave  question  and  must  be  answered  at  lei- 
sure, though  without  indecision. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  she  announced.  "There  was  my  great 
friend,  Moravia  Cloudwater,  at  the  Convent.  She  was 
older  than  me,  and  went  to  Paris  with  her  father  and 
married  an  Italian  prince  last  year.  I  have  heard 
from  her  since,  and  she  has  often  wanted  me  to  go 
and  stay  with  her  in  Rome — and  I  shall  now.  Morri 
and  I  are  the  dearest  friends — and  her  things  did  look 
lovely  the  day  she  came  to  see  us  at  Tours — with  the 
prince's  coronet  on  them — "  and  then  the  first  shadow 
came  to  her  contentment.  "That  is  the  only  pity 
about  you — even  with  a  castle,  you  haven't  a  coronet,  I 
suppose?"  regretfully.  "I  should  have  liked  one  on 
my  handkerchiefs  and  note-paper." 

Michael  felt  his  shortcomings. 

"The  title  was  taken  away  when  we  followed  Prince 
Charlie  and  we  only  got  back  the  land  by  the  skin  of 
our  teeth  after  an  awful  business  so  I  am  afraid  I 
cannot  do  that  for  you — but  perhaps,"  consolingly, 
"you  will  have  better  luck  next  time." 

This  brought  some  comfort. 

"Why,  of  course!  we  can  get  a  divorce — as  soon  as 
we  want.  Moravia  had  an  aunt,  who  simply  went  to 
Sioux  Falls  and  got  one  at  once  and  married  some- 
one   else,    so    it's    not   the   least   trouble.      Oh,    I   am 

32 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

glad  you  have  thought  of  this  plan.     It  is  clever  of 
you !» 

Mr.  Arranstoun  felt  that  he  was  becoming  rather 
too  interested  in  his — fiancee  and  time  was  passing. 
Her  family  might  discover  where  she  was — or  Henry 
might  return ;  he  must  clinch  matters  finally. 

"I  think  we  must  come  to  business  details  now,"  he 
said.  "Had  3'ou  not  better  write  a  letter  to  Mr.  Par- 
sons that  I  could  take,  stating  your  wishes ;  and  will 
you  also  write  down  upon  another  piece  of  paper  all  the 
details  of  your  name,  age — and  so  forth " 

He  now  showed  her  his  writing-table  and  gave  her 
paper  and  pens  to  choose  from. 

She  sat  down  gravely,  and  put  her  hands  to  her  head 
as  one  thinking  hard.  Then  she  began  rapidly  to  write 
— while  jNIr.  Arranstoun  watched  her  from  the  hearth- 
rug, to  where  he  had  retired. 

She  evidently  wrote  out  the  statistics  required  first, 
and  then  began  her  letter.  And  at  last  she  turned  a 
rogue's  face  with  a  perplexed  frown  on  it,  while  she 
bit  her  pen. 

"How  do  you  spell  indigenous,  please?" 

He  started  forward. 

"'Indigenous'? — what  a  grand  word! — i-n-d-i-g-e- 
n-o-u-s." 

"One  has  to  be  grand  when  writing  business  letters," 
she  told  him,  condescendingly,  and  then  finished  her 
missive. 

33 


Tin:    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

4iTlu^rc — that  will  do !     Now  listen !" 

She  got  up  and  stood  with  the  sheet  in  her  hand, 
and  road  off  the  remarkable  document  witliout  worry- 
ing much  about  stops  or  commas. 

"Dear  Mr,  Parsons: 

"Papa  said  I  could  marry  who  I  wanted  to  pro- 
vided tliat  he  was  decent,  so  please  give  your  writ- 
ten consent  to  the  grand  seigneur  who  brings  this. 
His  name  is  Arranstoun,  and  he  is  indigenous  to 
this  Castle,  and  really  an  aristocrat  who  papa  and 
mamma  would  have  approved  of,  although  he  un- 
fortunately has  no  titlt " 

«I  had  to  put  in  that,  you  see,"  and  she  looked  up 
explainingly,  "because  it  sounds  so  ordinary  if  he'd 
never  heard  of  Arranstoun — we  wouldn't  have,  only 
Uncle  IMortimer  was  looking  out  for  old  ruins  to  visit 
— well,"  and  she  continued  her  recital,  while  Michael 
lowered  his  head  to  hide  the  smile  in  his  eyes. 

"We  wish  to  get  married  on  Thursday  so  please 
be  quick  about  the  consent,  as  Uncle  Mortimer 
■wants  me  to  marry  his  nephew,  Samuel  Green- 
bank,  who  I  hate.  Agree,  sir,  the  expression  of 
my   sentiments,   the   most    distinguished 

"Sabine   Delburg." 

"P.  S.  I  will  want  all  my  money,  50,000  dollars 
a  year  I  believe  it  is,  on  Friday  morning." 

Then  she  looked  up  with  pride. 

34 


THE    ]\1AN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

"Don't  you  think  that  will  do?" 

Michael  was  overcome — his  voice  shook  with  en- 
chanted mirth. 

"Admirably,"  he  assured  her,  with  what  solemnity 
he  could. 

Sabine  seemed  thoroughly  satisfied  with  herself. 

"That's  all  right,  then.  Now  I  must  be  off,  or  they 
will  be  coming  to  look  for  me,  and  that  would  be  a 
bore." 

"But  we  have  not  made  all  the  arrangements  for  our 
wedding."  The  prospective  bridegroom  thought  it 
prudent  to  remind  her.  "When  can  you  come  on 
Thursday?     My  train  gets  in  about  six." 

"Thursday,"  and  she  contracted  her  dark  eyebrows. 
*'Let  me  see — •  Yes,  we  are  staying  until  Saturday  to 
see  the  remains  of  Elbank  Monastery — but  I  don't 
know  how  I  can  slip  away,  unless — only  it  would  be 
so  late.  I  could  say  I  had  a  headache  and  go  to  bed 
early  without  dinner,  and  get  here  about  eight  while 
they  were  having  theirs.  It  is  still  quite  light — I  often 
had  to  pretend  things  at  the  Convent  to  get  a  moment's 
peace." 

Michael  reflected. 

"Better  not  chance  eight — as  you  say  it  is  quite  light 
then  and  they  might  see  you.  Slip  out  of  the  hotel  at 
nine.  The  park  gate  is,  as  you  know,  right  across  the 
road.  I  will  wait  for  you  inside,  and  we  can  walk  here 
in  a  few  minutes —  and  come  up  these  balcony  steps — 

35 


Tin:    MAN    AND    THE    IMOMENT 

and   tho    diapcl    is   down    that   passag(^througli   this 

door.     Sec.'* 

Ho  went  and  opened  the  door,  and  she  followed  him 
— talking  as  she  walked. 

*'Nine!  Oh!  that  is  late — I  have  never  been  out 
so  late  before — but  it  can't  matter — just  this  once — 
can  it.?  And  here  in  the  north  it  is  so  funny;  it  is 
light  at  nine,  too!  Perhaps  it  would  be  safest." 
Then,  peering  down  the  vaulted  passage  and  drawing 
back,  "It  is  a  gloomy  hole  to  get  married  in !" 

"You  won't  say  so  when  you  see  the  chapel  itself," 
he  reassured  her.  "It  is  rather  a  beautiful  place. 
"Whenever  any  of  my  ancestors  committed  a  particu- 
larly atrocious  raid,  and  wanted  to  be  absolved  for 
their  sins,  they  put  in  a  window  or  a  painting  or  carv- 
ing. The  family  was  Catholic  until  my  grandfather's 
time,  and  then  High  Church,  so  the  glories  have  re- 
mained untouched." 

Sabine  kept  close  to  him  as  they  walked,  as  a  child 
afraid  of  the  dark  would  have  done.  It  seemed  to  her 
too  like  her  recent  experience  of  the  secret  passage, 
and  then  she  exclaimed  in  a  voice  of  frank  awe  and 
admiration,  when  he  opened  the  nail-studded,  iron-bound 
door  at  the  end : 

"Oh!  how  divine!" 

And  it  was  indeed.  A  gem  of  the  finest  period  of 
early  Gothic  architecture,  adorned  with  all  trophies 
which  love,  fear  and  contrition  could  compel  from  the 

36 


THE    jMAN    and    the    MOMENT 

art  of  the  ages.  Glorious  colored  lights  swept  down 
in  shafts  from  matchless  stained  glass,  and  the  high 
altar  was  a  blaze  of  richness,  wliile  beautiful  paintings 
and  tapestries  covered  the  walls. 

It  was  gorgeous  and  sumptuous,  and  unlike  anything 
else  in  England  or  Scotland.  It  might  have  been  the 
private  chapel  of  a  proud,  voluptuous  Cardinal  in 
Rome's  great  days. 

"Why  is  that  one  little  window  plain?"  Sabine  asked. 

Then  Michael  answered  with  a  cynical  note  in  his 
voice : 

"It  is  left  for  me — I,  who  am  the  last  of  them,  to 
put  up  some  expiatory  offering,  I  expect.  Rapine 
and  violence  are  in  the  blood,"  and  then  he  laughed 
lightly,  and  led  her  back  through  the  gloom  to  his  sit- 
ting-room. There  was  a  strange,  fierce  light  in  his 
bright  blue  eyes,  which  the  child-woman  did  not  see, 
and  which,  if  she  had  perceived,  she  would  not  have 
understood  any  more  than  he  understood  it  himself — • 
for  no  concrete  thought  had  yet  come  to  him  about  the 
future.  Only,  there  underneath  was  that  mighty  force, 
relentless,  inexorable,  of  heredity,  causing  the  instinct 
which  had  dominated  the  Arranstouns  for  eleven  hun- 
dred years. 

He  did  not  seek  to  detain  his  guest  and  promised 
bride — but,  with  great  courtesy,  he  showed  her  the  way 
down  the  stairs  of  the  lawn,  and  so  through  the  postern 
into  the  park,  and  he  watched  her  slender  form  trip  off 

37 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

towards  the  gate  which  was  opposite  the  Inn,  her  last 
words  ringing  in  his  cars  in  answer  to  his  final  ques- 
tion. 

"No,  I  shall  not  fail — ^I  will  leave  the  Crown  at  nine 

o'clock  exactly  on  Thursday." 

Then  turning,  he  retraced  his  steps  to  his  sitting- 
room,  and  there  found  Henry  Fordyce  returned. 


CHAPTER    III 

<  J  j||  M'^ELL,  old  boy!"  Mr.  Fordyce  greeted  him 
■  mj  I  with.  "You  should  have  been  with  me  and 
had  a  good  round  of  golf — but  perhaps, 
though,  you  have  made  up  your  mind !" 

Michael  flung  himself  into  his  great  chair. 

"Yes — I  have — and  I  have  got  a  fiancee." 

Mr.  Fordyce  was  not  disturbed ;  he  did  not  even  an- 
swer this  absurd  remark,  he  just  puffed  his  cigar — 
cigarettes  were  beneath  his  notice. 

"You  don't  seem  very  interested,"  his  host  ejacu- 
lated, rather  aggrievedly. 

"Tommyrot !" 

"I  tell  you,  it  is  true.     I  have  got  a  fiancee." 

"My  dear  fellow,  you  are  mad!" 

"No,  I  assure  you  I  am  quite  sane — I  have  found  a 
way  out  of  the  difficulty — an  angel  has  dropped  from 
the  clouds  to  save  me  from  Violet  Hatfield." 

Henry  Fordyce  was  actually  startled.  Michael 
looked  as  though  he  were  talking  seriously. 

"But  where  did  she  come  from?  What  the —  Oh! 
I  have  no  patience  with  you,  you  old  fool!  You  are 
playing  some  comedy  upon  me!" 

39 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT, 

"Henry,  I  give  you  my  word,  I'm  not — I  am  going 
to  nmrry  a  most  presentable  young  person  at  nine 
o'clock  on  Thursday  night  in  the  chapel  here — and  you 
are  going  to  stay  and  be  best  man."  Then  his  excite- 
ment began  to  rise  again,  and  he  got  up  from  his  chair 
and  paced  up  and  do\vn  restlessly.  "It  is  the  very 
thing.  She  wants  her  money  and  I  want  my  freedom. 
She  gets  hers  by  marriage,  and  I  get  mine.  I  don't 
care  a  rush  for  domestic  bliss,  it  has  never  appealed  to 
me;  and  the  fellow  in  Australia  who'll  come  after  me 
has  got  a  boy  who  will  do  all  right,  no  doubt,  for  the 
old  place  by  and  by.  I  shall  have  a  perfectly  free  time 
and  no  responsibilities — and,  thank  the  Lord!  no  more 
women  for  me  for  the  future.  I  have  done  with  the 
snakes.  I  shall  be  happy  and  free  for  the  first  time  for 
a  whole  j^ear!" 

^Ir.  Fordyce  actually  let  his  cigar  go  out.  Tliis 
incredible  story  was  beginning  to  have  an  effect  upon 
him. 

"But  where  did  she  come  from?"  he  asked  blandly, 
as  one  speaks  to  a  harmless  imbecile.  "I  leave  you  here 
in  an  abject  state  of  despair,  ready  almost  to  decide 
upon  marrying  old  Bessie,  and  I  return  in  an  hour  and 
you  inform  me  everything  is  settled,  and  you  are  the 
fiance  of  another  lady !  You  know,  you  surprise  me, 
Michael —     'Pon  my  word,  you  do !" 

Michael  laughed,  it  was  really  a  huge  joke. 

"Yes,  it  is  quite  true.     Well,  just  as  I  was  going  to 

40 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

ring  and  send  James  for  Bessie  to  talk  it  over  with  her, 
there  was  no  end  of  a  smash — as  you  see — and  a  girl — 
a  tourist — fell  through  the  secret  door.  I  haven't 
opened  it  for  five  years.  She  was  running  away  from 
a  horrid  fellow  she  was  engaged  to,  it  seems,  and  fled 
into  the  passage,  and  the  door  shut  after  her  and  she 
could  not  get  out,  so  she  pushed  on  in  here." 

"It  adds  dramatic  color  to  the  story,  the  girl  being 
engaged  to  someone  else — pray  go  on." 

Mr.  Fordyce  had  now  picked  up  his  cigar  again. 
This  preposterous  tale  no  longer  interested  him.  He 
thought  it  even  rather  bad  taste  on  the  part  of  his 
friend. 

"All  right!"  Michael  explained.  "You  need  not  be- 
lieve me  if  you  don't  like.  I  don't  care,  since  I  have 
done  what  I  wanted  to.  Bar  chaff,  Henry,  I  am  telhng 
you  the  truth.  The  girl  appears  to  be  a  young  woman 
of  decision.  She  explained  at  once  her  circumstances, 
and  it  struck  us  both  that  to  go  through  the  ceremony 
of  marriage  would  smooth  all  our  difficulties.  We  can 
easily  get  the  bond  annulled  later  on." 

Henry  Fordyce  put  down  his  cigar  again. 

"I  am  off  to  town  to-night.  You  won't  mind,  will 
you.'"'  Michael  went  on.  "Just  to  see  if  everything  is 
all  right,  and  to  get  her  guardian's  consent  and  a  spe- 
cial license,  and  I  shall  be  back  by  the  six  o'clock  train 
on  Thursday  in  time  to  get  the  ceremony  over  that 
night;  and  then,  by  the  early  morning  express,  if  you'll 

41 


Tin:    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

wait  till  tlun,  we'll  go  South  together,  and  so  for  Paris 
and  freedom !" 

Henry  actually  rose  from  his  chair. 

"And  the  bride?"  he  asked. 

Michael  laughed.  "Oh,  she  may  go  to  the  moon,  for 
all  I  care;  she  leaves  directly  after  the  ceremony  with 
her  certificate  of  marriage,  which  she  means  to  brandish 
in  the  face  of  her  relations,  who  are  staying  at  the  Inn, 
and  so  exit  out  of  my  life !  It  is  only  an  affair  of  ex- 
pediency." 

"It  is  the  affair  of  a  madman." 

IMichacl  frowned,  and  his  firm  chin  looked  aggres- 
sive. 

"It  is  nothing  of  the  kind.  You  told  me  yourself 
that  you  would  rather  marry  old  Bessie — a  woman  of 
eighty-four — than  Violet  Hatfield;  and  now,  when  I 
have  found  a  much  more  suitable  person — a  pretty  lit- 
tle lady — you  begin  to  talk.  My  mind  is  made  up,  and 
there  is  an  end  of  it." 

Mr.  Fordyce  interrupted. 

"Bessie  would  have  been  much  more  suitable — a  plain 
pretext;  but  you  have  no  idea  what  complications  you 
may  be  storing  up  for  yourself  by  marrying  a  young 
girl —  What  is  the  sense  in  it.-*"  he  continued,  a  little 
excited  now.  "The  younger  and  prettier  she  is  makes 
her  all  the  more  unsuitable  to  be  used  merely  as  a  tool 
in  your  game.     Confound  it,  Michael !" 

"And  her  game,  too,"  his  host  reminded  him.     His 

42 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    PIGMENT 

eyes  were  flashing  now,  and  that  expression,  which  all 
his  underlings  knew  meant  he  intended  to  have  his  own 
will  at  any  cost,  grew  upon  his  face. 

"You  forget  that  in  Scotland  divorce  is  not  an  im- 
possibility and — /  am  going  to  do  it,  Henry.  Now,  I 
had  better  write  to  old  Fergusson,  my  chaplain,  and 
tell  him  to  be  in  readiness,  and  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
see  my  lawyers  in  Edinburgh,  although,  as  there  are  no 
settlements  and  it  is  just  between  ourselves,  perhaps  it 
does  not  matter  about  them." 

"How  old  is  the  girl.?"  Mr.  Fordyce  felt  it  prudent 
to  ask.  "It  is  a  pretty  serious  thing  you  contemplate, 
you  know." 

"Oh !  rot ! — she  is  seventeen,  I  believe — and  for  that 
sort  of  a  marriage  and  mere  business  arrangement,  her 
age  is  no  consequence." 

Henry  turned  to  the  window  and  looked  out  for  a 
moment,  then  he  said  gravely: 

"Is  it  quite  fair  to  her.?" 

Michael  had  gone  to  his  writing-table,  and  was  busily 
scribbling  to  his  chaplain,  but  he  looked  over  his  shoul- 
der startled,  and  then  a  gleam  of  blue  fire  came  into 
his  eyes,  and  his  handsome  mouth  shut  like  a  vise. 

"Of  course,  it  is  quite  fair.  She  wishes  to  be  free  as 
much  as  I  do.  She  gets  what  she  wants  and  I  get  what 
I  want — a  mere  ceremony  can  be  annulled  at  any  time. 
She  jumped  at  the  idea,  I  tell  you,  Henry — I  have  not 
got  time  to  go  into  the  pros  and  cons  of  that  side  of 

48 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

tlio  question,  and  I  don't  want  to  hear  your  views  or 
anv  one  else's  on  the  matter.  I  mean  to  marry  the 
pil  on  Thursday  night — and  you  can  quite  well  put  off 
going  South  until  Friday  morning,  and  sec  me  through 

it;- 

Mr.  Fordyce  prepared  to  go  towards  the  door,  and 
when  there  said,  in  a  voice  of  ice : 

"I  shall  do  no  such  thing.  I  cannot  prevent  your 
doing  this,  I  suppose — taking  advantage  of  a  3roung 
girl  for  your  own  ends,  it  seems  to  me — so  I  shall  go 
now." 

Michael's  temper  began  to  blaze  with  this,  his  oldest 
friend. 

"As  you  please,"  he  flashed.  "But  it  Is  perfect  rot, 
all  this  high  palaver.  The  girl  gains  by  it  as  well  as  I, 
I  am  not  taking  the  least  advantage  of  her.  I  shall 
liave  to  get  her  guardian's  consent,  and  I  suppose  he'll 
know  what  he  is  up  to.  I  have  never  taken  any  one's 
advice,  and  I  am  not  going  to  begin  now,  old  boy — so 
we  had  better  say  good-bye  if  you  won't  stop." 

He  came  over  to  the  door,  and  then  he  smiled  his 
radiant,  irresistible  smile  so  like  a  mischievous  jolly 
boy's. 

"Give  me  joy,  Henry,  old  friend,"  he  said,  and  held 
out  his  hand. 

But  Henry  Fordyce  looked  grave  as  a  judge  as  he 
took  it. 

"I  can't  do  that,  Michael.     I  am  very  angry  with 

44 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

you.  I  have  known  you  ever  since  you  were  born,  and 
we  have  been  real  pals,  although  I  am  so  much  older 
than  you — but  I'm  damned  if  I'll  stay  and  see  you 
through  this  folly.  Good-bye."  And  without  a  word 
further  he  went  out  of  the  room,  closing  the  door  softly 
behind  him. 

Michael  gave  a  sort  of  whoop  to  Binko,  who  sprang 
at  him  in  love  and  excitement,  while  he  cried : 

"Very  well!     Get  along,  old  saint!" 

Then  he  rang  the  bell,  and  to  the  footman  when  he 
came  he  handed  the  note  he  had  written  to  be  taken  to 
Mr.  Fergusson,  and  sent  orders  for  Johnson  to  pack 
for  two  nights,  and  for  his  motor  to  be  ready  to  catch 
the  10:40  express  at  the  junction  for  London  town. 
Then  he  seized  his  cap  and,  calling  Binko,  he  went  off 
into  the  garden,  and  so  on  to  the  park  and  to  the  golf 
house,  where,  securing  his  professional,  he  played  a 
vigorous  round,  and  when  he  got  back  to  the  castle 
again,  just  before  dinner,  he  was  informed  that  Mr. 
Fordyce  had  left  in  his  own  motor  for  Edinburgh. 


CHAPTER  IV 

BN  opalescence  of  soft  light  and  peace  and 
beauty  was  over  the  park  of  Arranstoun  on 
this  June  night  of  its  master's  wedding,  and 
he  walked  among  the  giant  trees  to  the  South  Lodge 
gate,  only  a  few  hundred  yards  from  the  postern,  which 
he  reached  from  his  sitting-room.  All  had  gone  well 
in  London,  Mr.  Parsons  had  raised  no  objection,  be- 
ing indeed  greatly  flattered  at  the  proposed  alliance — 
for  who  had  not  heard  of  the  famous  border  Castle  of 
Arranstoun  and  envied  its  possessor.'' 

•They  had  talked  a  long  time  and  settled  everything. 

"Tie  up  the  whole  of  Miss  Delburg's  money  entirely 
upon  herself,"  Mr.  Arranstoun  had  said — "if  it  is  not 
already  done — then  we  need  not  bother  about  settle- 
ments.    I  understand  that  she  is  well  provided  for." 

"And  how  about  your  future  children.?"  Mr.  Parsons 
asked. 

IMiclmcl  stiffened  suddenly  as  he  looked  out  of  the 
office  window. 

"Oh — er,  they  will  naturally  have  all  I  possess,"  he 
returned  quickly. 

46 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

And  now  as  he  neared  the  Lodge  gate,  and  nine 
o'clock  struck,  a  suppressed  excitement  was  in  his 
veins.  For  no  matter  how  eventful  your  life  may 
be,  or  how  accustomed  you  are  to  chances  and  vivid 
amusements,  to  be  facing  a  marriage  ceremony  with 
a  practically  unknown  young  woman  has  aspects 
of  originality  in  it  calculated  to  set  the  pulses  in  mo- 
tion. . 

He  had  almost  forgotten  that  side  of  the  affair  which 
meant  freedom  and  safety  for  him  from 'the  claws  of 
the  Spider — although  he  had  learned  upon  his  return 
home  from  London  that  she  had,  as  Henry  Fordyce  had 
predicted  that  she  might,  "popped  in  upon  him,"  hav- 
ing motored  over  from  Ebbsworth,  and  had  left  him  a 
letter  of  surprised,  intense  displeasure  at  his  unan- 
nounced absence. 

When  five  minutes  had  passed,  and  there  was  as  yet 
no  sign  of  his  promised  bride  crossing  the  road  from 
the  Inn,  Mr.  Arranstoun  began  to  experience  an  un- 
pleasant impatience.  The  quarter  chimed — his  temper 
rose — had  she  been  playing  a  trick  upon  him  and  never 
intended  at  any  time  to  come?  He  grew  furious — and 
paced  the  fine  turf  behind  the  Lodge,  swearing  hotly  as 
was  his  wont  when  enraged. 

Then  he  saw  a  little  figure  wrapped  in  a  gray  dust 
cloak  much  too  big  for  it  advancing  cautiously  to  the 
gate  in  the  twilight,  and  he  bounded  forward  to  meet 
her  and  to  open  the  narrow  side-entrance  before  the 

47 


THE    :\IAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

Lodge-kccpcr,  Old  Bessie,  could  have  time  to  see  who 
was  there, 

"At  last !"  he  cried,  when  they  were  safely  inside  and 
had  gone  a  few  paces  along  the  avenue.  "I  was  begin- 
ning to  think  you  did  not  mean  to  keep  your  word!  I 
am  glad  you  have  come !" 

"Why,  of  course  I  meant  to  keep  my  word.  I  never 
break  it,"  Sabine  said  astonished.  "I  am  longing  to  be 
free  just  like  you  are,  but  I  had  an  awful  business  to 
get  away!  I  have  never  been  so  excited  in  my  life! 
Their  train  was  late — some  breakdown  on  the  branch 
line — they  did  not  get  in  until  half-past  eight,  and  I 
dare  not  be  all  dressed,  but  had  to  pretend  to  be  in  bed, 
covered  up,  still  with  the  awful  headache,  when  Aunt 
Jemima  bounced  in."  Then  she  laughed  joyously  at  the 
recollection  of  her  escape.  "The  moment  she  had  gone 
off  to  her  supper,  tucking  me  up  for  the  night,  I 
jumped  up  and  got  on  my  dress  and  hat  and  her  dust 
cloak  and  then  I  had  to  watch  my  moment,  creep  down 
those  funny  little  stairs,  and  out  of  the  side  door — and 
so  across  here.  You  know  it  was  far  harder  to  manage 
than  the  last  feast  Moravia  Cloudwater  and  I  gave  to 
the  girls  the  night  before  she  went  to  Paris!  Isn't  it 
fun!    I  do  like  having  these  adventures,  don't  you.'"' 

"Yes,"  said  Michael,  and  looked  down  into  her  face. 

She  was  extremely  pretty,  he  thought,  in  the  soft 
dusk  of  this  Northern  evening.  Her  leghorn  hat  with 
its  wreath  of  blue  forget-me-nots  was  most  becoming 

48 

\ 


■^%^-. 


"  He  bounded  forward  to  meet  her  " 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

and  her  brown  hair  was  ruffled  a  httle  by  the  hat's  hasty- 
donning. 

"I  needn't  keep  this  old  cloak  on,  need  I?"  she  asked. 
"Nobody  can  see  us  here  and  it  is  so  hot." 

He  helped  her  off  with  it  and  carried  it  for  her.  She 
looked  prettier  still  now,  the  slender  lines  of  her  child- 
ish figure  were  so  exquisite  in  their  promise  of  beauti- 
ful womanhood  later  on,  and  the  Sunday  frock  of  white 
foulard  was  most  sweet. 

Michael  was  very  silent ;  it  almost  made  her  nervous, 
but  she  prattled  on. 

"This  is  my  best  frock,"  she  laughed,  "because  even 
though  it  is  only  a  business  arrangement,  one  couldn't 
get  married  in  an  old  blouse,  could  one.'"' 

"Of  course  not!"  and  he  strode  nearer  to  her.  "I 
am  in  evening  dress,  you  see — just  like  a  French  bride- 
groom for  those  wedding  parties  in  the  Bois !  so  we  are 
both  festive — but  here  we  are  at  the  postern  door !" 

He  opened  it  with  his  key  and  they  stole  across  the 
short  lawn  and  up  the  balcony  steps  like  two  stealthy  ma- 
rauders. Then  he  turned  and  held  out  his  hand  to  her 
in  the  blaze  of  electric  light. 

"Welcome!     Oh!  it  is  good  of  you  to  have  come!" 

She  shook  hands  frankly — it  seemed  the  right  thing 
to  do,  she  felt,  since  they  were  going  to  oblige  one  an- 
other and  both  gain  their  desires.  Then  it  struck  her 
for  the  first  time  that  he  was  a  very  handsome  young 
man — quite  the  Prince  Charming  of  the  girls'  dreams. 

49 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

A  tliousjuul  times  finer  than  Moravia's  Italian  prince 
with  wlioni  for  her  part  she  had  been  horribly  disap- 
pointed when  she  had  seen  his  photograph.  Only  it 
was  too  silly  to  consider  this  one  in  that  light,  since  he 
wasn't  really  going  to  be  hers — only  a  means  to  an 
end.  Oh!  the  pleasure  to  be  free  and  rich  and  to  do 
exactly  what  she  pleased!  She  had  been  planning  all 
these  days  what  she  would  do.  She  would  get  back  to 
the  Inn  not  later  than  ten,  and  creep  quietly  up  to  her 
room  through  that  side  door  which  was  always  open 
into  the  yard.  The  weather  was  so  beautiful  it  would 
be  nothing,  even  if  the  Inn  people  did  see  her  entering 
— she  might  have  been  out  for  a  stroll  in  the  twilight. 
Then  at  six  in  the  morning  she  would  creep  out  again 
and  go  to  the  station ;  there  was  a  train  which  left  for 
Edinburgh  at  half-past — and  there  she  would  get  a 
fast  express  to  London  later  on,  after  a  good  break- 
fast ;  and  once  in  London  a  cab  would  take  her  to  Mr. 
Parsons',  and  after  that ! — money  and  freedom ! 

She  had  planned  it  all.  She  would  leave  a  letter  for 
her  Uncle  and  Aunt,  saying  she  was  married  and  had 
gone  and  they  need  not  trouble  themselves  any  more 
about  her.  Mr.  Parsons  would  tell  her  where  to  stay 
and  help  her  to  get  a  good  maid  like  Moravia  had,  and 
then  she  would  go  to  Paris  just  as  Moravia  had  done 
and  buy  all  sorts  of  lovely  clothes;  it  would  take  her 
perhaps  a  whole  month,  and  then  when  she  was  a  very 
grand,   grown-up   lady,   she   would  write  to  her  dear 

50 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

friend  and  say  now  she  was  ready  to  accept  her  invita- 
tion to  go  and  stay  with  her!  And  what  absolute  joy 
to  give  Moravia  such  a  surprise!  to  say  she  was  mar- 
ried and  free !  and  had  quite  as  nice  things  as  even  that 
Princess !  It  was  all  a  simply  glorious  picture — and 
but  for  this  kind  young  man  it  could  never  have  been 
hers — but  her  fate  would  have  been — Samuel  Green- 
bank  or  Aunt  Jemima  for  four  years !  It  was  no  won- 
der she  felt  grateful  to  him!  and  that  her  handshake 
was  full  of  cordiality. 

Michael  pulled  himself  together  rather  sharply,  the 
blood  was  now  running  very  fast  in  his  veins. 

"Wait  here,"  he  said  to  her,  "while  I  go  into  the 
chapel  to  see  if  Mr.  Fergusson  and  the  two  witnesses 
are  ready." 

They  were — Johnson  and  Alexander  Armstrong — 
and  the  old  chaplain  who  had  been  Michael's  father's 
tutor  and  was  now  an  almost  doddering  old  nonentity 
also  stood  waiting  in  his  white  surplice  at  the  altar 
rails. 

The  candles  were  all  lit  and  great  bunches  of  white 
lilies  gave  forth  a  heavy  scent.  A  strange  sense  of  in- 
toxication rose  to  Michael's  brain.  When  he  returned 
to  his  sitting-room  he  found  his  bride-to-be  arranging 
her  hat  at  the  old  mirror  which  had  reflected  her  be- 
fore. 

"Won't  you  take  it  off?"  he  suggested — "and  see,  I 

have  got  you  some  flowers "  and  he  brought  her  a 

51 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

prcjit  buncli  of  stcphanotis  which  lay  waiting  upon  a 
table  near. 

"There  is  no  orange-blossom — because  that  is  for 
real  weddings — but  won't  you  just  put  this  bit  of 
stophanotis  in  your  hair?"  and  he  broke  off  a  few 
blooms. 

She  was  delighted,  she  loved  dressing  up,  and  she 
fixed  it  most  becomingly  with  dexterous  fingers  above 
her  left  ear. 

"You  do  look  sweet,"  he  told  her.     "Now  we  must 

come "  and  he  gave  her  his  arm.     She  took  it  with 

tliat  grave  look  of  a  child  acting  in  a  very  serious 
grown-up  play.  She  was  perfectly  delicious  with  her 
blooming  youth  and  freshness  and  dimples — her  violet 
eyes  shining  like  stars,  and  her  red  full  lips  pouting  like 
appetizing  ripe  cherries.  Michael  trembled  a  little  as 
he  felt  her  small  hand  upon  his  arm. 

They  walked  to  the  altar  rails  and  the  ceremony  be- 
gan. 

But,  with  the  first  words  of  the  old  clergyman's  voice, 
a  new  and  unknown  excitement  came  over  Sabine.  The 
night  and  the  gorgeous  chapel  and  the  candles  and  the 
flowers  all  affected  her  deeply,  just  as  the  grand  feast 
days  used  to  do  at  the  convent.  A  sudden  realization 
of  the  mystery  of  things  overcame  her  and  frightened 
her,  so  that  her  voice  was  hardly  audible  as  she  repeat- 
ed the  clergyman's  words. 

What  were  these  vows  she  was  making  before  God.? 

52 


THE    IMAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

She  dared  not  think — the  whole  thing  was  a  maze,  a 
dream.  It  was  too  late  to  run  away — but  it  was  terri- 
ble— she  wanted  to  scream. 

At  last  she  felt  her  bridegroom  place  the  ring  upon 
her  finger,  now  ice  cold. 

And  then  she  was  conscious  that  she  was  listening  to 
these  words : 

"Those  whom  God  hath  joined  together  let  no  man 
put  asunder." 

After  that  she  must  have  reeled  a  little,  for  she  felt 
a  strong  arm  encircle  her  waist  for  a  moment. 

Then  she  knew  she  was  kneeling  and  that  words  of 
no  meaning  whatever  were  being  buzzed  over  her  head. 

And  lastly  she  was  vividly  awakened  to  burning  con- 
sciousness by  the  first  man's  kiss  which  had  ever  touched 
her  innocent  lips. 

So  she  was  married — and  this  was  her  husband,  this 
splendid,  beautiful  young  man  there  beside  her  in  his 
evening  clothes — and  it  was  over — and  she  was  going 
away  and  would  never  see  him  again — and  what  had  she 
done? — and  would  God  be  very  angry.'' — since  it  was 
all  really  in  a  church ! 

Her  hand  trembled  as  she  wrote  her  name,  Sabine 
Delburg,  for  the  last  time,  and  she  was  shivering  all 
over  as  she  walked  back  with  her  newly-made  husband 
to  his  sitting-room  through  the  gloomy  corridor. 
There  it  was  all  brilliant  light  again,  the  light  of  soft 
silk-shaded   lamps — and   the   center   table  was    cleared 

53 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

niul  supjicM-  fi)r  two  aiul  opened  champagne  awaited 
thcMu.  'I'luy  were  both  very  pale,  and  Sabine  sat  down 
in  fi  chair. 

"Mr.  Feri^usson  will  bring  a  copy  of  the  certificate 
in  a  minute,"  Michael  said  to  her,  "and  then  we  can 
have  some  supper — but  now,  come,  we  must  drink  each 
other's  healths." 

lie  poured  out  the  wine  into  two  glasses  and  handed 
her  one.  She  had  never  tasted  champagne  before — but 
sipped  it  as  she  was  bid.  It  did  not  seem  to  her  a  very 
nice  drink — not  to  be  compared  to  sirop  aux  fraises — 
but  she  knew  at  weddings  people  always  had  cham- 
pagne. 

Michael  gulped  down  a  bumper,  and  it  steadied  his 
nerves  and  the  fresh,  vigorously  healthy  color  came 
back  to  his  face.  The  whole  situation  had  excited  his 
every  sense. 

"Let  me  wish  you  all  joy — Mrs. — Arranstoun!"  he 
said. 

The  little  bride  laughed  her  rippling  laugh.  This 
brought  her  back  to  earth  and  the  material,  jolly  side 
of  things,  it  was  so  funny  to  hear  herself  thus  called. 

"Oh !  that  does  sound  odd !"  she  cried.  "I  shall  never 
call  myself  that — why,  people  might  know  I  must  be 
something  connected  with  this  castle,  and  they  would 
be  questioning,  and  I  couldn't  have  a  scrap  of  fun ! 
You  have  got  another  name — you  said  it  just  now, 
'Michael  Howard  Arranstoun' — that  will  do.     I  shall 

54 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

be  Mrs.  Howard !  It  is  quite  ordinary — and  shall  I  be 
a  widow?  I've  never  thought  of  all  this  yet.  Oh!  it 
will  be  fun." 

Every  second  of  the  time  her  charm  was  further  af- 
fecting Michael — he  was  not  conscious  of  any  definite 
intention — only  to  talk  to  her — to  detain  her  as  long 
as  possible.  She  was  like  a  breath  of  exquisite  spring 
air  after  Violet  Hatfield. 

Mr.  Fergusson  here  came  in  from  the  chapel  with 
the  certificate — and  his  presence  seemed  a  great  bore, 
and  after  thanking  him  for  his  services,  Michael  poured 
him  out  some  wine  to  drink  their  healths,  and  then  the 
butler  announced  that  the  brougham  was  waiting  at  the 
door  to  take  the  old  gentleman  home. 

Sabine  had  stood  up  on  his  entrance  and  came  for- 
ward to  wish  him  good-bye ;  now  that  the  certificate  was 
there  she  intended  to  go  herself  by  the  balcony  steps 
as  soon  as  he  should  be  safely  off  by  the  door. 

"Good-bye,  my  dear  young  lady,  I  have  known  your 
husband  since  he  was  bom,  and  with  all  his  faults  he 
is  a  splendid  fellow ;  let  me  wish  you  every  happiness 
and  prosperity  together  and  may  you  be  blessed  with 
many  children  and  peace." 

Sabine  stiffened — she  felt  she  ought  to  enlighten  the 
benevolent  old  man,  who  evidently  did  not  understand 
at  all  that  she  was  going  to  trip  off — not  as  he,  just 
to  her  own  home,  but  out  of  Mr.  Arranstoun's  life  for- 
ever— but  no  suitable  words  would  come,  and  Michael, 

55 


Tin:    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

ftfrftid  of  what  she  inin^ht  say,  liurricd  his  chaplain  off 
without  more  ado  and  then  returned  to  her  and  shut 
the  door. 

Now  they  were  absolutely  alone  and  the  clock  struck 
ten  in  the  courtyard  with  measured  strokes. 

"Let  us  begin  supper,"  he  said,  with  what  calmness  he 
could. 

"But  I  ought  to  go  back  at  once,"  his  bride  pro- 
tested; "the  Inn  may  be  shut  and  then  what  in  the 
world  should  I  do?" 

"There  is  plenty  of  time,  it  certainly  won't  close  its 
doors  until  eleven — have  some  soup — or  a  cold  quail 
and  some  salad — and  see,  I  have  not  forgotten  the 
wedding-cake — you  must  cut  that!" 

Sabine  was  very  hungry ;  she  had  had  to  pretend  her 
head  was  aching  too  much  to  go  with  her  elders  to  the 
ruins  of  Elbank  and  had  retired  to  her  room  before 
they  left,  and  had  had  no  tea,  and  such  dainties  were 
not  to  be  resisted,  especially  the  cake!  After  all,  it 
could  not  be  any  harm  staying  just  this  little  while 
longer  since  no  one  would  ever  know,  and  people  who 
got  married  always  did  cut  their  own  cakes.  So  she 
sat  down  and  began,  he  taking  every  care  of  her.  They 
had  the  merriest  supper,  and  even  the  champagne,  more 
of  which  he  gave  her,  did  not  taste  so  nasty  after  the 
first  sip. 

She  had  quail  and  salad  and  a  wonderful  ice — better 
than  any,  even  on  the  day  of  the  holiday  for  Moravia's 

56 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

wedding  far  away  in  Rome;  and  there  were  marrons 
glaces,  too,  and  other  divine  bon-bons — and  strawber- 
ries and  cream! 

She  had  never  enjoyed  herself  so  much  in  her  whole 
life.  Her  perfectly  innocent  prattle  enchanted  Michael 
more  and  more  with  its  touches  of  shrewd  common 
sense.  He  drank  a  good  deal  of  champagne,  too — ■ 
and  finally,  when  it  came  to  cutting  the  cake  time,  a 
wild  thought  began  to  enter  his  head. 

The  icing  was  rather  hard,  and  he  had  to  help  her — 
and  stood  beside  her,  very  near. 

She  looked  up  smilingly  and  saw  something  in  his 
face.  It  caused  her  a  sudden  wild  emotion  of  she  knew 
not  what — and  then  she  felt  very  nervous  and  full  of 
fear. 

She  moved  abruptly  away  from  him  to  the  other  side 
of  the  table,  leaving  the  cake — and  stood  looking  at 
him  with  great,  troubled,  violet  eyes. 

He  followed  her. 

"You  little,  sweet  darling!"  he  whispered,  his  voice 
very  deep.  "Why  should  you  ever  go  away  from  me — 
I  want  to  teach  you  to  love  me,  Sabine.  You  belong  to 
me,  you  know — you  are  mine.  I  shall  not  let  you  leave 
me !     I  shall  keep  you  and  hold  you  close !" 

And  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms. 

For  he  was  a  man,  you  see — and  the  moment  had 
come! 


CHAPTER  V 


FIVE     YKAES    'AFTEUWARDS 


m 


'R.  ELI  AS  CLOUD  WATER  came  up  the  steps 
of  the  Savoy  Hotel  at  Carlsbad,  and  called  to 
the  Arab  who  was  waiting  about: 
"Has  the  Princess  come  in  from  her  drive  yet?" 
He  was  informed  that  she  had  not,  and  he  sat  down 
in  the  verandah  to  wait.  He  was  both  an  American 
gentleman  and  an  American  father,  therefore  he  was 
accustomed  to  waiting  for  his  women  folk  and  did  not 
fidget.  He  read  the  New  York  Herald,  and  when  he 
had  devoured  the  share  list,  he  glanced  at  the  society 
news  and  read  that,  among  others  who  were  expected 
at  the  Bohemian  health  resort  that  day,  was  Lord 
Fordyce,  motoring,  for  a  stay  of  three  weeks  for  the 
cure. 

He  did  not  know  this  gentleman  personally,  and  the 
fact  would  not  have  arrested  his  attention  at  all  only 
that  he  chanced  to  be  interested  in  English  politics.  He 
wondered  vaguely  if  he  would  be  an  agreeable  acquisi- 
tion to  the  place,  and  then  turned  to  more  thrilling 
things.  Presently  a  slender  young  woman  came  down 
the  path  through  the  woods  and  leisurely  entered  the 

58 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOjNIENT 

gate.  Mr.  Cloudwater  watched  her,  and  a  kindly  smile 
lit  his  face.  He  thought  how  pretty  she  was,  and  how 
glad  he  was  that  she  had  joined  Moravia  and  himself 
again  this  summer.  The  months  when  she  went  off  by 
herself  to  her  house  in  Brittany  always  seemed  very 
long.  He  saw  her  coming  from  far  enough  to  be  able 
to  take  in  every  detail  about  her.  Extreme  slendemess 
and  extreme  grace  were  her  distinctive  marks.  The 
face  was  childish  and  rounded  in  outhne,  but  when  you 
looked  into  the  violet  eyes  there  was  some  shadow  of  a 
story  hidden  there.  She  was  about  twenty-two  years 
old,  and  was  certainly  not  at  Carlsbad  for  any  reasons 
of  cure,  for  her  glowing  complexion  told  a  tale  of  radi- 
ant health. 

Her  white  clothes  were  absolutely  perfect  in  their 
simplicity,  and  so  was  her  air  of  unconcern  and  indif- 
ference. "The  enigma"  her  friends  often  called  her. 
She  seemed  so  frank  and  simple,  and  no  one  ever  got 
beyond  the  wall  of  what  she  was  really  thinking — what 
did  she  do  with  her  life.'*  It  seemed  ridiculous  that  any 
one  so  rich  and  attractive  and  young  should  care  to 
pass  long  periods  of  time  at  a  wild  spot  near  Finisterre, 
in  an  old  chateau  perched  upon  the  rocks,  completely 
alone  but  for  an  elderly  female  companion. 

There  was,  of  course,  some  hidden  tragedy  about  her 
husband — who  was  a  raging  lunatic  or  an  inebriate  shut 
up  somewhere — perhaps  there !  They  had  had  to  part 
at  once — he   had  gone  mad  on  the  wedding  journey, 

59 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOINIENT 

some  bolicvecl,  but  others  said  this  was  not  at  all  the 
case,  and  that  she  had  married  an  Indian  chief  and  then 
parted  from  liim  immediately  in  America — finding  out 
tlic  liorror  of  being  wedded  to  a  savage.  No  one  knew 
anything  for  a  fact,  only  that  when  she  did  come  into 
the  civilized  world,  it  was  always  with  the  Princess 
Torniloni  and  her  father,  who,  if  they  knew  the  truth 
of  Mrs.  Howard's  story,  never  gave  it  away.  Men 
swarmed  around  her,  but  she  appeared  completely  un- 
concerned and  friendly  with  them  all,  and  not  even  the 
most  envious  of  the  other  Americans  who  were  trying 
to  climb  into  Princess  Torniloni's  exclusive  society  had 
ever  been  able  to  make  up  any  scandals  about  her. 

"I  have  had  such  an  enchanting  walk,  Clowdy,  dear," 
the  slim  young  woman  said  as  she  sat  down  in  a  basket- 
chair  near  Mr.  Cloudwater.  "I  am  so  glad  we  came 
here,  aren't  you.'' — and  I  am  sure  it  will  do  Moravia  no 
end  of  good.  She  passed  me  as  I  was  coming  from  the 
Aberg  on  her  way  to  Hans  Heiling,  so  she  will  not  be 
in  yet.     Let  us  have  tea." 

The  Arab  called  the  waiter,  who  brought  it  to  them. 
One  or  two  other  little  groups  were  having  some,  too, 
but  Mr.  Cloudwater's  party  were  singularly  ungregari- 
ous,  and  avoided  making  acquaintances  in  hotels.  He 
and  Mrs.  Howard  chatted  alone  together  over  theirs 
for  about  half  an  hour.  Presently  there  was  the  noise 
of  a  motor  arriving.  It  whirled  into  the  gate  and 
stopped  where  they  usually  do,  a  little  at  one  side.     It 

60 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

was  very  dusty  and  travel-stained,  and  beside  the  chauf- 
feur there  got  out  a  tall,  fair  Englishman.  The  per- 
sonnel of  the  hotel  came  forward  to  meet  him  with  em- 
pressement,  and  as  he  passed  where  Mr.  Cloudwater 
and  Mrs.  Howard  were  sitting,  they  heard  him  say : 

"My  servant  brought  the  luggage  by  train  this  morn- 
ing, so  I  suppose  the  rooms  are  ready." 

"They  are  a  wonderful  race,"  Mr.  Cloudwater  re- 
marked, "aren't  they,  Sabine.  I  never  can  understand 
why  you  should  so  persistently  avoid  them — they  really 
have  much  more  in  common  with  ourselves  than  Latins." 

"That  is  why  perhaps — one  likes  contrasts — and 
French  and  Russians,  or  Germans,  are  far  more  intel- 
ligent. Every  one  to  his  taste !"  and  Mrs.  Howard 
smiled. 

The  Englishman  came  out  again  in  a  few  minutes, 
and  sitting  down  lazily,  as  though  he  were  alone  upon 
the  balcony  terrace,  he  ordered  some  tea.  Not  the  re- 
motest scrap  of  interest  in  his  surroundings  or  com- 
panions lit  up  his  face.  He  might  have  been  forty  or 
forty-two,  perhaps,  but  being  so  fair  he  looked  a  good 
deal  younger,  and  had  a  peculiar  distinction  of  his  own. 

"That  is  what  I  object  to  about  them,"  Mrs.  Howard 
remarked  presently,  "their  abominable  arrogance. 
Look  at  that  man.  It  is  just  as  though  there  was  no 
one  else  on  this  balcony  but  himself — no  one  else  exists 
for  him !" 

'Why,  Sabine,  you  are  severe!     He  looks  to  me  to 

61 


ii^ 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

1)0  Ji  prrttv  considcmbly  nice  man — and  he  is  only  read- 
ing the  paper  as  I  have  been  doing  myself,"  Mr.  Cloud- 
watcr  rejoined,  "rcrhaps  he  is  the  English  nobleman 
who  I  read  was  expected  to-day — Lord  Fordyce,  the 
paper  said — and  wasn't  that  the  name  of  rather  a 
jironiinent  English  politician  who  had  to  go  into  the 
Upper  House  last  year  when  his  father  died — and  it 
was  considered  he  would  be  a  loss  to  the  Commons?" 

"I  really  don't  know.  I  don't  take  the  slightest  in- 
terest in  them  or  their  politics.  Ah !  here  is  Mora- 
via  "  and  both  rose  to  meet  a  very  charming  lady 

who  drove  up  in  a  victoria  and  got  out. 

She  had  all  the  perfection  of  detail  which  character- 
izes the  very  best-dressed  American  woman — and  she 
had  every  attraction  except,  perhaps,  a  voice — but  even 
that  she  knew  how  to  modulate  and  disguise,  so  that  it 
was  no  wonder  that  the  Princess  Torniloni  passed  for 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  women  in  Rome  or  Paris,  or 
Cairo  or  New  York,  whenever  she  graced  any  of  the 
cities  with  her  presence.  She  was  a  widow,  too,  and 
very  rich.  The  Prince,  her  husband,  had  been  dead  for 
nearly  two  years,  and  she  was  wearing  grays  and  whites 
and  mauves. 

He  had  been  a  brute,  too,  but  unlike  her  friend,  Mrs. 
Howard's  husband,  he  had  had  the  good  taste  to  be 
killed  riding  in  a  steeplechase,  and  so  all  went  well,  and 
the  pretty  Princess  was  free  to  wander  the  world  over 
with  her  indulgent  father. 

62 


THE    JMAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

"It  is  just  too  lovely  for  words  up  in  those  woods, 
papa,"  she  said,  "and  I  have  had  my  tea  in  a  dear  little 
chalet  restaurant.     You  did  not  wait  for  me,  I  hope?" 

They  assured  her  they  had  not  done  so,  and  she  sat 
down  in  a  comfortable  chair.  Her  arrival  caused  a 
flutter  among  the  other  occupants  of  the  terrace,  and 
even  the  Englishman  glanced  up.  This  group  had  at 
last  made  some  impression  it  would  seem  upon  the 
retina  of  his  eye,  for  he  looked  deliberately  at  them  and 
realized  that  the  two  women  were  quite  worthy  of  his 
scrutiny. 

"But  I  hate  Americans,"  he  said  to  himself.  "They 
are  such  actresses,  you  never  know  where  you  are  with 
them — these  two,  though,  appear  some  of  the  best." 

Presently  they  went  into  the  hotel,  passing  him  very 
closely —  and  for  a  second  his  eyes  met  the  violet  ones 
of  Sabine  Howard,  and  he  was  conscious  that  he  felt 
distinctly  interested,  much  to  his  disgust. 

But,  after  all,  he  was  here  for  a  cure  and  a  rest,  and 
he  had  always  believed  in  women  as  recreations. 

His  solitary  table  was  near  theirs  in  the  restaurant, 

and  later  he  wrote  to  his  friend,  Michael  Arranstoun, 

loitering  at  Ostende: 

The  hotel  is  quite  decent — and  after  your  long 
sojourn  in  the  wilds,  you  will  have  an  overdose  of 
polo  and  expensive  ladies  and  baccarat.  You  had 
much  better  join  me  here  at  the  end  of  the  week. 
There  are  two  pretty  women  who  would  be  quite 
your  affair.  They  have  the  next  table,  and 
neither  of  them  can  be  taking  the  cure. 

63 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

But  Mr.  Arranstoun,  when  he  received  this  missive, 
had  other  things  to  do.  He  had  been  out  of  England, 
and  indeed  Europe,  for  nearly  five  years — having,  in 
the  summer  of  1907,  joined  a  friend  to  explore  the  in- 
nermost borders  of  China  and  Tibet,  and  there  the  pas- 
sion for  this  kind  of  thing  had  overtaken  him,  and  his 
own  home  knew  him  no  more. 

Now,  however,  he  had  announced  that  he  had  re- 
turned for  good,  and  intended  to  spend  the  rest  of  his 
days  at  Arranstoun  as  a  model  landlord. 

He  started  this  by  playing  polo  at  Ostende,  where 
he  had  run  across  Henry  Fordyce.  They  had  cor- 
dially grasped  each  other's  hands,  their  estrangement 
forgotten  when  face  to  face ;  and  the  only  mention  there 
had  been  of  the  circumstances  which  had  caused  their 
parting  were  in  a  few  sentences. 

"By  Jove,  Henry,  it  is  five  whole  years  since  you 
thundered  morals  at  me  and  shook  the  dust  of  Arrans- 
toun from  your  feet!" 

"You  did  behave  abominably,  Michael — but  I  am 
awfully  glad  to  see  you — and  the  scene  at  Ebbsworth, 
when  Violet  Hatfield  read  the  notice  in  the  Scotsman 
of  your  marriage,  made  me  feel  you  had  been  almost 
justified  in  taking  any  course  you  could  to  make  your- 
self safe.  But  how  about  your  wife?  Have  you  ever 
seen  her  again?" 

"No.  My  lawyer  tells  me  I  can  divorce  her  now  for 
desertion.     I  should  have  to  make  some  pretence  of 

64 


-t-> 


C/5 


o 
I/) 

X 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    ]\10]\IENT 

asking  her  to  return  to  me,  he  says,  which  of  course 
she  would  refuse  to  do — and  then  both  can  be  free,  but, 
for  my  part,  I  am  not  hankering  after  freedom  much — 
I  do  very  well  as  I  am — and  I  always  cherish  a  rather 
tender  recollection  of  her." 

Henry  laughed. 

"I  have  often  pictured  that  wedding,"  he  said,  "and 
the  little  bride  going  off  with  her  certificate  and  your 
name  all  alone.  No  family  turned  up  awkwardly  at 
the  last  moment  to  mar  things ;  she  left  safely  after  the 
ceremony,  eh?" 

Michael  looked  away  suddenly,  and  then  answered 
with  overdone  unconcern : 

"Yes — soon  after  the  ceremony." 

"I  do  wonder  you  had  no  curiosity  to  investigate  her 
character  further!" 

"I  had — but  she  did  not  appreciate  my  interest — and 
— after  she  had  gone — I  was  rather  in  a  bad  temper, 
and  I  reasoned  myself  into  believing  she  was  probably 
right — also  just  then  I  wanted  to  join  Latimer  Berke- 
ley's expedition  to  China.  I  remember,  his  letter  about 
it  came  by  the  next  morning's  post — so  I  went — but  do 
you  know,  Henry,  I  believe  that  little  girl  made  some 
lasting  impression  upon  me.  I  believe,  if  she  had 
stayed,  I  should  have  been  frantically  in  love  with  her 
— but  she  went,  so  there  it  is !" 

"Why  don't  you  try  to  find  her?"  Henry  asked. 

"Perhaps  I  mean  to  some  day.     I  have  thought  of 

65 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

tloiiiij  so  often,  but  first  China,  and  then  one  thing  and 
anotJier  Imve  stopped  me — besides,  she  may  have  fan- 
cied some  other  fellow  by  this  time — the  whole  thing 
was  one  of  those  colossal  mistakes.  If  we  could  only 
liave  met  ordinarily — and  not  married  in  a  hurry  and 
then  parted — like  that." 

"Has  it  never  struck  you  she  was  rather  young  to 
be  left  to  drift  by  herself?" 

"Yes,  often — "  Then  Michael  grew  a  little  con- 
strained. "I  believe  I  behaved  like  the  most  impossible 
brute,  Henry — in  marrying  her  at  all  as  you  said — but 
I  would  like  to  make  it  up  to  her  some  day — and  I 
suppose  if,  by  chance,  she  has  taken  a  fancy  to  some- 
one else  by  this  time  and  wants  to  be  free  of  me,  I 
ought  to  divorce  her — but,  by  Heaven,  I  believe  I 
should  hate  that!" 

"You  dog  in  the  manger !" 

"Yes,  I  am " 

And  so  the  subject  had  ended. 

And  now  Henry,  third  Lord  Fordyce,  was  taking  a 
mild  cure  at  Carlsbad,  and  had  decided  that  in  his 
leisure  moments  he  would  begin  to  write  a  book — a 
project  which  had  long  simmered  in  his  brain ;  but  after 
two  days  of  sitting  by  the  American  party  at  each 
meal,  a  very  strong  desire  to  converse  with  them — espe- 
cially the  one  with  the  strange  violet  eyes — overcame 
him ;  and  with  deliberate  intention  he  scraped  acquaint- 
ance with  Mr.  Cloudwater  in  the  exercise  room  of  the 

66 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

iKaiserbad,  who,  with  polite  ceremony,  presented  him 
that  evening  to  his  daughter  and  her  friend. 

Sabine  had  been  particularly  silent  and  irritating, 
Moravia  thought,  and  as  they  went  up  to  bed  she 
scolded  her  about  it. 

*'He  is  a  perfect  darling,  Sabine,"  she  declared,  "and 
will  do  splendidly  to  take  walks  with  us  and  make  the 
fourth.  He  is  so  lazy  and  English  and  phlegmatic — 
I'd  like  to  make  him  crazy  with  love — but  he  looked  at 
you,  you  little  witch,  not  at  me  at  all." 

"You  are  welcome  to  him,  Morri — I  don't  care  for 
Englishmen.  Good-night,  pet,"  and  Mrs.  Howard 
kissed  her  friend,  and  going  in  to  her  room,  she  shut  the 
door. 


CHAPTER  VI 

'ORE  than  a  week  went  by,  and  It  seemed  quite 
natural  now  to  Lord  Fordyce  to  shape  his 
days  according  to  the  plans  of  the  American 
party,  and  when  they  met  at  the  Schlossbrunn  in  the 
morning  at  half-past  seven,  and  he  and  Mr.  Cloudwater 
and  the  Princess  had  drunk  their  tumblers  of  water 
together,  their  custom  was  to  go  on  down  to  the  town 
and  there  find  Sabine,  who  had  bought  their  slices  of 
ham  and  their  rolls,  and  awaited  them  at  the  end  of 
the  Alte  Weise  with  the  pink  paper  bags,  and  then  the 
four  proceeded  to  walk  to  the  Kaiser  Park  to  break- 
fast. 

This  meal  was  so  merry,  Mrs.  Howard  tantalizing 
the  others  by  having  cream  in  her  coffee  and  sugar 
upon  her  wild  strawberries,  while  they  were  only  per- 
mitted to  take  theirs  plain. 

During  the  stroll  there  it  was  Sabine's  custom  per- 
sistently to  adhere  to  the  side  of  Mr.  Cloudwater,  leav- 
ing the  other  two  tete-a-tete — and,  delightful  as  Lord 
Fordyce  found  the  Princess,  this  irritated  him.  He 
discovered  himself,  as  the  days  advanced,  to  be  experi- 

68 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

encing  a  distinct  longing  to  know  what  was  passing  in 
that  httle  head,  whose  violet  eyes  looked  out  with  so 
much  mystery  and  shadow  in  their  depths.  He  could 
not  tell  himself  that  she  avoided  him;  she  was  always 
friendly  and  casual  and  perfectly  at  her  ease,  but  no 
extra  look  of  pleasure  or  welcome  for  him  personally 
ever  came  into  her  face,  and  never  once  had  he  been 
able  to  speak  to  her  really  alone.  jNIr.  Cloudwater  and 
the  two  ladies  drove  back  from  breakfast  each  day,  and 
he  was  left  to  take  his  exercises  and  his  bath.  Now  and 
then  he  had  encountered  the  Princess  in  the  near  woods 
just  before  luncheon,  returning  from  the  Kaiserbad, 
but  Mrs.  Howard  never — and  when  he  inquired  how 
she  spent  her  time,  she  replied  however  she  happened 
to  fancy,  which  gave  him  no  clue  as  to  where  he  might 
find  her — and  with  all  her  frank  charm,  she  was  not  a 
person  to  whom  it  was  easy  to  put  a  direct  question. 
Lord  Fordyce  began  to  grow  too  interested  for  his 
peace  of  mind.  When  he  realized  this,  he  got  very 
angry  with  himself.  He  had  never  permitted  a  woman 
to  be  anything  but  a  mild  recreation  in  his  life,  and  at 
forty  it  was  a  little  late  to  begin  to  experience  something 
serious  about  one. 

They  often  motored  in  the  afternoon  to  various  re- 
sorts not  too  far  distant,  and  there  took  tea;  and  for 
two  whole  days  it  had  been  wet  and,  except  at  meals, 
the  ladies  had  lain  perdues. 

However  fate  was  kind  on  a  Saturday  morning,  and 

69 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

allowed  Lord  Fordyce  to  chance  upon  Mrs.  Howard, 
right  up  at  the  Belvedere  in  the  far  woods,  looking 
over  the  valley.  She  was  quite  alone,  and  her  slender 
figure  was  outJined  against  the  bright  sunlight  as  she 
leaned  on  the  balustrade  gazing  down  at  the  exquisite 
scene. 

Henry  could  have  cried  aloud  in  joy,  "At  last!" 
but  he  restrained  himself,  and  instead  only  said  a 
casual  "Hullo!"  Mrs.  Howard  turned  and  looked 
at  him,  and  answered  his  greeting  with  frank  cor- 
diality. 

"Have  you  never  been  here  before.''  I  think  it  is  one 
of  the  most  lovely  spots  in  the  whole  woods,  and  at  this 
time  there  is  never  any  one — what  made  you  penetrate 
so  far?" 

"Good  fortune!  The  jade  has  been  unkind  until 
now." 

They  leant  on  the  balustrade  together. 

"I  always  like  being  up  on  a  high  mountain  and  look- 
ing down  at  things,  don't  you.'*"  she  said. 

"No,  not  always — one  feels  lonely — ^but  it  is  nice  if 
one  is  with  a  suitable  companion.  How  have  you,  at 
your  age,  managed  to  become  self-sufficing?" 

"Circumstance,  I  expect,  has  taught  me  the  beauty 
of  solitude.     I  spend  months  alone  in  Brittany." 

"And  what  do  you  do — read  most  of  the  time?" 

He  was  so  enchanted  that  she  was  not  turning  the 
conversation  into  banal  things,  he  determined  not  to  say 

70 


THE    :\IAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

anything  which  would  cause  her  again  to  draw  down 
the  blind  of  bland  politeness. 

"Yes,  I  read  a  great  deal.  You  see,  Moravia  and  I 
were  at  a  convent  together,  and  there,  beyond  teaching 
us  to  spell  and  to  write  and  do  a  few  sums  and  learn  a 
garbled  version  of  French  history,  a  little  music,  and 
a  great  deal  of  embroidery,  they  left  us  totally  igno- 
rant— one  must  try  to  supply  the  deficiencies  oneself. 
It  is  appalling  to  remain  ignorant  once  one  realizes 
that  one  is." 

"Knowledge  on  any  subject  is  interesting — did  you 
begin  generally — or  did  you  specialize.'"' 

"I  always  wanted  to  be  just — and  to  understand 
things.  The  whole  of  life  and  existence  seemed  too 
difficult — I  think  I  began  trying  to  find  some  key  to 
that  and  this  opened  the  door  to  general  information, 
and  so  eventually,  perhaps,  one  specializes." 

He  was  wise  enough  not  to  press  the  question  into 
what  her  specializing  ran.  He  adored  subtleties,  and 
he  noted  with  delight  that  she  was  not  so  completely 
indifferent  as  usual.  If  he  could  keep  her  attention 
for  a  little  while,  they  might  have  a  really  interesting 
investigation  of  each  other's  thoughts. 

"I  like  thinking  of  things,  too — and  trying  to  dis- 
cover their  meanings  and  what  caused  them.  We  are 
all,  of  course,  the  victims  of  heredity." 

"That  may  be,"  she  agreed,  "but  the  will  can  control 
any  heredity.     It  can  only  manifest  itself  when  we  let 

71 


THE    .AIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

ourselves  drift.  The  tragcd}'  of  it  is  that  we  have 
drifted  too  far  sometimes  before  we  learn  that  we  could 
htive  directed  the  course  if  we  had  willed.  Ignorance  is 
seemingly  the  most  cruel  foe  we  have  to  encounter,  be- 
cause we  are  so  defenseless,  not  knowing  he  is  there." 

She  sighed  unconsciously  and  looked  out  over  the 
beautiful  tree-tops,  down  to  where  the  Kaiser  Park  ap- 
peared like  a  little  doll's  chalet  set  among  streams  and 
pastures  green. 

Lord  Fordyce  was  much  moved.  She  was  prettier 
and  sweeter  than  he  had  even  fancied  she  would  be 
could  he  ever  contrive  to  find  her  all  alone.  He  watched 
her  covertly ;  the  exquisite  peachy  skin  with  its  pure 
color,  and  her  soft  brown  hair  dressed  with  a  simplicity 
which  he  thought  perfection,  all  appealed  to  him,  and 
those  strange  violet  eyes  rather  round  and  heavily 
lashed  with  brown-shaded  lashes,  darker  at  the  tips. 
The  type  was  not  intense  or  of  a  studious  mould.  Cir- 
cumstance must  indeed  have  formed  an  exotic  character 
to  have  grafted  such  deep  meaning  in  their  innocent 
depths.  She  went  on  presently,  not  remarking  his  si- 
lence. 

"It  is  heredity  which  makes  my  country  women  so 
nerv'ous  and  unstable  as  a  rule.  You  don't  like  them, 
as  I  know,"  and  she  smiled,  "and  I  think,  from  youT 
point  of  view,  you  are  right.  You  see,  we  are  nearly 
all  mushroom  growths,  sprung  up  in  a  night — and  we 
have  not  had  time  for  poise,  or  the  acceptance  with 

72 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

calmness  of  our  good  fortune.  We  are  as  yet  unbal- 
anced by  it,  and  don't  know  what  we  want." 

"You  are  very  charming,"  and  he  looked  truthful, 
and  at  that  moment  felt  so. 

"Yes,  I  know — ^we  can  be  more  charming  than  any 
other  women  because  we  have  learnt  from  all  the  other 
nations  and  play  which  ever  part  we  wish  to  select." 

"Yes,"  he  admitted,  rather  too  quickly — and  her  rip- 
pling laugh  rang  out.  He  had  hardly  ever  heard  her 
laugh,  and  it  enchanted  him,  even  though  he  was  net- 
tled at  her  understanding  of  his  thought. 

"It  remains  for  men  to  make  us  desire  to  play  the 
same  part  always — if  they  find  it  agreeable." 

Again  he  said  "Yes" — but  this  time  slowly. 

"Now  you  Englishmen  have  the  heredity  of  abso- 
lute phlegm  to  fight.  While  we  ought  to  be  trying  to 
counteract  jumping  from  one  role  to  another,  you 
ought  to  try  to  teach  yourselves  that  versatility  is  a 
good  thing,  too,  in  its  way." 

"I  am  sure  it  is.  I  wish  you  would  teach  me  to  un- 
derstand it — but  you  yourself  seem  to  be  restful  and 
stable.     How  have  you  achieved  this?" 

"By  stud3'ing  the  meaning  of  things,  I  suppose,  and 
checking  myself  every  time  I  began  to  want  to  do  the 
restless  things  I  saw  my  countrywomen  doing.  We 
have  wonderful  wills,  you  know,  and  if  we  want  a  thing 
sufficiently,  we  can  get  anything.  That  is  why  Moravia 
says  we  make  such  successful  great  ladies  in  the  dif- 

78 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

fcrent  countries  wc  marry  into.  Your  great  ladies,  if 
they  are  nice,  are  great  naturally,  and  if  they  arc  not, 
they  often  fail,  even  if  they  are  born  aristocrats.  We 
do  not  often  fail,  because  we  know  very  well  we  are 
taking  on  a  part,  and  must  play  it  to  the  very  best  of 
our  ability  all  the  time — and  gradually  we  play  it  bet- 
ter than  if  it  were  natural." 

"What  a  little  cynic !  'Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes' !" 
and  he  laughed. 

"I  am  not  at  all  a  cynic !  It  is  the  truth  I  am  telling 
you.  I  admire  and  respect  our  methods  far  more  than 
yours,  which  just  'growed'  like  Topsy!" 

"But  cynicism  and  truth  are,  unfortunately,  synony- 
mous. Only  you  are  too  young,  and  ought  not  to  know 
anything  about  either!" 

"I  like  to  know  and  do  things  I  ought  not  to !"  Her 
eyes  were  merry. 

"Tell  me  some  more  about  your  countrywomen. 
I'm  awfully  interested,  and  have  always  been  too  fright- 
ened of  their  brilliancy  to  investigate  myself." 

"We  are  not  nearly  so  bothered  with  hearts  as  Euro- 
peans— heredity  again.  Our  mothers  and  fathers  gen- 
erally sprang  from  people  working  too  hard  to  have 
great  emotions — then  we  arrive,  and  have  every  luxury 
poured  upon  us  from  birth ;  and  if  we  have  hardy  char- 
acters we  weather  the  deluge  and  remain  very  decent 
citizens." 

"And  if  you  have  not?" 

74 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

**Why,  naturally  the  instincts  for  hard  work,  which 
made  our  parents  succeed,  if  they  remain  idle  must 
make  some  explosion.  So  we  grow  restless  in  our  pal- 
aces, and  get  fads  and  nerves  and  quaint  diseases — and 
have  to  come  to  Carlsbad — and  talk  to  sober  English- 
men !"  The  look  of  mischief  which  she  vouchsafed  him 
was  perfectly  adorable.     He  was  duly  affected. 

"You  take  us  as  a  sort  of  cure !" 

"Yes !" 

"How  do  you  know  so  much  about  us  and  our  faults? 
I  gathered,  from  what  you  said  last  night  at  dinner, 
that  you  have  never  been  in  England  but  once,  for  a 
month,  when  you  were  almost  a  child." 

"The  rarest  specimens  come  abroad,"  and  a  dimple 
showed  in  her  left  cheek,  "and  I  read  about  you  in  your 
best  novels — even  your  authors  unconsciously  give  you 
away  and  show  your  selfishness  and  arrogance  and  self- 
satisfaction." 

"Shocking  brutes,  aren't  we.''" 

"Perfectly." 

Then  they  both  laughed,  and  Sabine  suggested  it  was 
time  they  returned  to  luncheon. 

"It  is  quite  two  miles  from  here,  and  Mr.  Cloud- 
water,  although  the  kindest  dear  old  gentleman,  begins 
to  get  hungry  at  one  o'clock. 

So  they  turned  and  sauntered  downwards  through 
the  lovely  green  woods,  with  the  warm  hum  of  insects 
and  the  soft    summer,  glancing  sunshine.     And  all  of 

75 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

3'ou  who  know  the  beauties  of  Carlsbad,  or  indeed  an}^ 
other  of  tliose  Boliemian  spas,  can  just  picture  how 
n^rcenl)le  was  their  walk,  and  how  conducive  to  amiable 
discussion  and  the  acceleration  of  friendship.  Henry 
tried  to  get  her  to  tell  him  some  more  of  the  secrets  of 
her  countrywomen,  but  she  would  not  be  serious.  She 
was  in  a  merry  mood,  and  turned  the  fire  into  the  ene- 
my's camp,  making  him  disclose  the  ways  of  English- 
men. 

"I  believe  you  like  us  as  a  rule  because  we  are  such 
casual  creatures !"  he  said  at  last,  "rather  indifferent 
about  petits  soms,  and  apt  to  seize  what  we  desire,  or 
take  it  for  granted." 

A  sudden  shadow  came  into  her  face  which  puzzled 
him,  and  she  did  not  answer,  but  went  on  to  talk  of 
Brittany  and  the  place  which  she  had  bought.  Hcronac 
— just  a  weird  castle  perched  right  upon  a  rock  above 
a  fishing  village,  with  the  sea  dashing  at  its  base  and 
the  spray  rising  right  to  her  sitting-room  windows. 

"I  have  to  go  across  a  causeway  to  my  garden  upon 
the  main  land — and  when  it  is  very  rough,  I  get  soak- 
ing wet — it  is  the  wildest  place  you  ever  saw." 

"What  on  earth  made  you  select  it.?"  Lord  Fordyce 
asked.  "You,  who  look  like  a  fresh  rose,  to  choose  a 
grim  brigand's  stronghold  as  a  residence!" 

"It  suited  my  mood  on  the  day  I  first  saw  it — and  I 
bought  it  the  following  week.  I  make  up  my  mind  in 
a  minute  as  to  what  I  want." 

76 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

"You  must  let  me  motor  past  and  look  at  it,"  he 
pleaded,  "and  when  my  twenty-one  days  of  drinking 
this  uninteresting  water  is  up,  I  intend  going  back  in 
my  car  to  Paris,  and  from  there  down  to  see  Mont  St. 
Michel." 

"You  shall  not  only  look  at  it — you  may  even  come 
in — if  you  are  nice  and  do  not  bore  me  between  now 
and  then,"  and  she  glanced  up  at  him  slyly.  "I  have 
an  old  companion,  ]\Iadame  Imogen  Aubert — who  lives 
with  me  there — and  she  always  hopes  I  shall  one  day 
have  visitors !" 

Lord  Fordyce  promised  he  would  be  a  pure  sage,  and 
if  she  would  put  him  on  probation,  and  really  take  pains 
to  sample  his  capabilities  of  not  boring  in  a  few  more 
walks,  he  would  come  up  for  judgment  at  Heronac 
when  it  was  her  good  pleasure  to  name  a  date. 

"I  shall  be  there  toward  the  middle  of  August. 
After  we  leave  here,  the  Princess  and  dear  Cloudie  go  to 
Italy  with  her  little  son,  the  baby  Torniloni :  he  is  such 
a  darling,  nearly  three  years  old — he  is  at  Heronac 
now  with  his  nurses." 

"And  3'ou  go  back  to  Brittany  alone.''" 

"Yes " 

"Then  I  shall  come,  too." 

"If,  at  the  end  of  your  cure,  you  have  not  bored  me !" 

By  this  time  they  had  got  down  to  the  Savoy  gate — 
and  there  found  Moravia  and  Mr.  Cloudwater  waiting 
for  them  on  the  balcony — clamoring  for  lunch. 

77 


THE    ]\IAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

Princess  Torniloni  gave  a  swift,  keen  glance  at  the 
two  who  had  entered,  but  she  did  not  express  the 
thought  wliicli  came  to  her. 

"It  is  rather  liard  that  Sabine,  who  does  not  want 
him  and  is  not  free  to  have  him,  should  have  drawn  him 
instead  of  me." 

That  night  in  the  restaurant  there  came  in  and 
joined  their  party  one  of  those  American  men  who  are 
always  to  be  met  witli  in  Paris  or  Aix  or  Carlsbad  or 
Monte  Carlo,  at  whatever  in  any  of  these  places  repre- 
sents the  Ritz  Hotel,  one  who  knew  everybody  and 
everything,  a  person  of  no  particular  sex,  but  who  al- 
ways would  make  a  party  go  with  his  stories  and  his 
gaiety,  and  help  along  any  hostess.  Cranley  Beaton 
was  this  one's  name.  The  Cloudwater  party  were  all 
quite  glad  to  welcome  him  and  hear  news  of  their 
friends.  One  or  two  decent  people  had  arrived  that 
afternoon  also,  and  Moravia  felt  she  could  be  quite 
amused  and  wear  her  pretty  clothes.  Sabine  hated  the 
avalanches  of  dinners  and  lunches  and  what  not  this 
would  mean.  Her  sense  of  humor  was  very  highly  de- 
veloped, and  she  often  laughed  in  a  fond  way  over  her 
friend,  who  was,  in  her  search  for  pleasure,  still  as  keen 
as  she  had  been  in  convent  days. 

"You  do  remain  so  young,  Morri !"  she  told  her,  as 
they  linked  arms  going  up  to  bed.  Their  rooms  were 
on  the  first  floor,  and  they  disdained  the  lift.  "Do 
you  remember,  you  used  to  be  the  mother  to  all  of 

78 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

us  at  St.  Anne's — and  now  I  am  the  mother  of  us 
two !" 

"You  are  an  old,  wise-headed  Sibyl — that  is  what 
you  are,  darling!"  the  Princess  returned.  "I  wish  I 
could  ever  know  what  has  so  utterly  changed  you  from 
our  convent  days,"  and  she  sighed  impatiently.  "Then 
you  were  the  merriest  madcap,  ready  to  tease  any  one 
and  to  have  any  lark,  and  for  nearly  these  four  years 
since  we  have  been  together  again  you  have  been  an- 
other person — grave  and  self-possessed.  What  are  you 
always  thinking  of,  Sabine.''" 

They  had  reached  their  sitting-room,  and  Mrs.  How- 
ard went  to  the  window  and  opened  it  wide. 

"I  grew  up  in  one  year,  Moravia — I  grew  a  hundred 
years  old,  and  all  the  studies  which  I  indulge  in  at 
Heronac  teach  me  that  peace  and  poise  are  the  things 
to  aim  at.    I  cannot  tell  you  any  more." 

"I  did  not  mean  to  probe  into  your  secrets,  darling," 
the  Princess  exclaimed  hastily.  "I  promised  you  I 
never  would  when  you  came  to  me  that  November  in 
Rome — we  were  both  miserable  enough,  goodness 
knows !  We  made  the  bargain  that  there  should  be  no 
retrospects.  And  your  angelic  goodness  to  me  all  that 
time  when  my  little  Girolamo  was  born,  have  made  me 
your  eternal  debtor.  Why,  but  for  you,  darling,  he 
might  have  been  snatched  from  me  by  the  hateful  Tor- 
niloni  family !" 

"The  sweet  cherub !" 

79 


THE    INIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

TIr'ii  tlioir  conversation  turned  to  this  absorbing 
topic,  the  perfections  of  Girolamo!  and  as  it  is  hardly 
one  wliich  could  interest  you  or  me,  my  friend,  let  us  go 
buck  to  the  smoking-room  and  listen  to  a  conversation 
going  on  between  Cranley  Beaton  and  Lord  Fordyce. 
The  latter,  with  great  skill,  had  begun  to  elicit  certain 
information  he  desired  from  this  society  register! 

"Yes,  indeed,"  Mr.  Beaton  was  saying.  "She  is  a 
peach — The  husband" — and  he  looked  extremely  wise. 
"Oh!  she  made  some  frightful  mesalliance  out  West, 
and  they  say  he's  shut  in  a  mad-house  or  home  for 
inebriates.  Her  entrance  among  us  dates  from  when 
she  first  appeared  in  Paris,  about  three  years  ago,  with 
Princess  Torniloni.  She  is  awfully  rich  and  awfully 
good,  and  it  is  a  real  pity  she  does  not  divorce  the 
ruffian  and  begin  again!" 

"She  is  not  free,  then?"  and  Lord  Fordyce  felt  his 
heart  sink.  "I  thought,  probably,  she  had  got  rid  of 
any  encumbrance,  as  it  is  fairly  easy  over  with  you." 

"Why,  she  could  in  a  moment  if  she  wanted  to,  I 
expect,"  Mr.  Beaton  assured  his  listener.  "She  hasn't 
fancied  anyone  else  yet;  when  she  does,  she  will,  no 
doubt." 

"Her  husband  is  an  American,  then?" 

"Why,  of  course — didn't  I  tell  you  she  came  from 
the  West?  Why,  I  remember  crossing  with  her.  She 
was  in  deep  mourning — in  the  summer  of  1908.  She 
never  spoke  to   anyone  on  board,  and  it  was   about 

80 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

eighteen  months  after  that  I  was  presented  to  her  in 
Paris.      She  gets  prettier  every  day." 

Lord  Fordj'ce  felt  this  was  true. 

"So  she  could  be  free  if  she  fancied  anyone,  you 
think?"  he  hazarded  casually,  as  though  his  interest 
in  the  subject  had  waned — and  when  Mr.  Beaton  had 
answered,  "Yes — rather,"  Lord  Fordyce  got  up  and 
sauntered  off  toward  bed. 

"One  has  to  be  up  so  early  in  the  morning,  here," 
he  remarked  agreeabl3\  "See  you  to-morrow  at  the 
Schlossbrunn  ,'* — Good-night !" 


CHAPTER    VII 

FTER  this,  for  several  days  Mrs.  Howard 
made  it  rather  difficult  for  Lord  Fordyce  to 
speak  to  her  alone,  although  he  saw  her  every 
day,  and  at  every  meal,  and  each  hour  grew  more 
enamored.  She,  for  her  part,  was  certainly  growing 
to  like  him.  He  soothed  her;  his  intelligence  was 
highly  trained,  and  he  was  courteous  and  gentle  and 
sympathetic — but  for  some  reason  which  she  could  not 
explain,  she  had  no  wish  to  precipitate  matters.  Her 
mind  was  quite  without  any  definite  desire  or  deter- 
mination, but,  being  a  woman,  she  was  perfectly  aware 
that  Henry  was  falling  in  love  with  her.  A  number 
of  other  men  had  done  so  before,  and  had  then  at  once 
begun  to  be  uninteresting  in  her  eyes.  It  was  as  if  she 
were  numb  to  the  attraction  of  men — but  this  one  had 
qualities  which  appealed  to  her.  Her  own  countrymen 
were  never  cultivated  enough  in  literature,  and  were  too 
absorbed  in  stocks  and  shares  to  be  able  to  take  flights 
of  sentiment  and  imagination  with  her.  Lord  Fordyce 
understood  in  a  second — and  they  could  discuss  any 
subject  with  a  refined  subtlety  which  enchanted  her. 

82 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

Henry  had  not  spent  his  hfe  maneuvring  love  affairs 
with  women,  and  was  not  very  clever  at  manipulating 
circumstance.  He  fretted  and  fumed  at  not  getting 
his  desired  tete-a-tete,  but  with  all  the  will  was  too 
hedged  in  by  conventionality  and  a  sense  of  politeness 
to  force  matters,  as  his  friend,  Michael  Arranstoun, 
would  have  done  with  high-handed  unconcern.  Thus, 
his  cure  at  Carlsbad  was  drawing  to  a  close  before  he 
again  spent  an  afternoon  quite  alone  with  Sabine 
Howard.  They  had  gone  to  the  Aberg  to  tea,  and 
the  Princess  had  expressed  herself  too  tired  to  walk 
back,  and  had  got  into  the  waiting  carriage,  making 
Cranley  Beaton  accompany  her.  She  was  not  in  a 
perfectly  amiable  temper.  Lord  Fordyce  attracted 
her  strongly,  and  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  he  had  only 
eyes  for  Sabine — who  cared  for  him  not  at  all.  The 
Princess  found  Cranley  Beaton  absolutely  tiresome — 
no  better  than  the  New  York  Herald,  she  thought  pet- 
tishly, or  the  Continental  Daily  Mail — to  be  with! 
The  waters  were  getting  on  her  nerves,  too ;  she  would 
be  glad  to  leave  and  go  to  Sorrento  with  that  Cupid 
among  infants,  Girolamo.  Sabine  had  better  divorce 
her  horror  of  a  husband,  and  marry  the  man  and  have 
done  with  it! 

Now  the  walk  from  the  Aberg  down  through  the 
woods  is  a  peculiarly  delightful  one  and,  even  in  the 
season  at  Carlsbad,  not  over-crowded  by  people. 
Henry  Fordyce  felt  duly  elated  at  the  prospect,  and 

83 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

Mrs.  Howard  had  an  air  of  pensive  mischief  in  her 
violet  eyes.  Lord  Fordyoc,  who  had  been  accustomed 
for  years  to  making  speeches  for  his  party,  and  was 
known  as  a  ready  orator,  found  himself  rather  silent, 
ami  even  a  little  nervous,  for  the  first  hundred  yards 
or  so.  She  looked  so  bewitching,  he  thought,  in  her 
fresh  white  linen,  showing  up  the  round  peachlness  of 
her  young  cheeks,  and  those  curling,  childish,  brown 
lashes  making  their  shadow.  He  was  overcome  with  a 
desire  to  kiss  her.  She  was  so  supremely  healthy  and 
delectable.  He  felt  he  had  been  altogether  a  fool  in 
his  estimate  of  the  serious  necessities  of  life  hitherto. 
Woman  was  now  one  of  them — and  this  woman  su- 
premely so.  Why,  if  she  could  be  freed  from  bonds, 
should  she  not  become  his  wife?  But  he  felt  it  might 
be  wiser  not  to  be  too  precipitate  about  suggesting  the 
thing  to  her.  She  had  certainly  given  him  no  indica- 
tion that  she  would  receive  the  idea  favorably,  and  ap- 
peared to  be  of  the  type  of  character  which  could  not 
be  coerced.  He  felt  very  glad  Michael  Arranstoun 
had  not  responded  to  his  pressing  request  to  join  him. 
It  would  be  far  better  that  that  irrltatlngly  attractive 
specimen  of  manhood  should  not  step  upon  the  scene, 
until  he  himself  had  some  definite  hope  of  affairs  being 
satisfactorily  settled. 

They  began  their  talk  upon  the  lightest  subjects, 
and  gradually  drifted  into  one  of  the  discussions  of 
emotions  In  the  abstract  which  are  so  fascinating — and 

84) 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

so   dangerous — and   which  require   skill  to   direct   and 
continue. 

]\Irs.  Howard  held  that  pleasure  could  alone  come 
from  harmony  of  body  and  spirit,  while  Lord  Fordyce 
maintained  that  wild  discords  could  also  produce  it, 
and  that  it  could  not  be  defined  as  governed  by  any 
law. 

"One  is  sometimes  full  of  pleasure  even  against  one's 
will,"  he  said.  "Every  spiritual  principle  and  convic- 
tion may  be  outraged,  and  yet  for  some  unaccountable 
reason  pleasure  remains." 

Mrs.  Howard  opened  her  eyes  wide  as  if  at  a  sudden 
thought. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "I  wish  it  were  not  true  what 
you  say,  but  it  is — and  it  is  a  great  injustice." 

"What  makes  you  say  that.?"  Henry  asked,  quickly. 
"You  were  thinking  of  some  particular  thing.  Do  tell 
me." 

"I  was  thinking  how  some  people  can  sin  and  err  in 
every  way,  and  yet  there  is  something  about  them  which 
causes  them  to  be  forgiven,  and  which  even  causes 
pleasure  while  they  are  sinning;  and  there  are  othci-s 
who  might  do  the  same  things  and  would  be  anathema- 
tised at  once — and  no  joy  felt  with  them  at  any  time. 
Moravia  and  I  call  it  having  'it' — some  people  have  it, 
and  some  people  have  not  got  it,  and  that  is  the  end  of 
the  matter !" 

"It  is  a  strange  thing,  but  I  know  what  you  mean. 

85 


THE    IMAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

I  knovr  one  particular  case  of  it  in  a  friend  of  mine. 
No  matter  what  he  does,  one  always  forgives  him.  It 
docs  not  depend  upon  looks,  either — although  this  ac- 
tual person  is  abominably  good-looking — it  does  not 
depend  upon  intelligence  or  character  or — anything — ■ 
as  you  say,  it  is  just  'it.'  Now  you  have  it,  and 
the  Princess,  perfectly  charming  though  she  is,  has: 
not." 

Sabine  did  not  contradict  him;  she  never  was  con- 
ventional, denying  truths  for  the  sake  of  diffidence  or 
politeness.  Moravia  was  beautiful  and  charming,  but 
it  was  true  she  had  not  *it.' 

"I  think  it  applies  more  to  men  than  to  women,"  was 
all  she  said. 

"You  were  thinking  of  a  man,  then,  when  you 
spoke?" 

"Yes — I  was  thinking  of  a  man — ^but  It  Is  not  an  In- 
teresting subject." 

Lord  Fordyce  decided  that  It  was,  but  he  did  not 
continue  it. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  about  Heronac,"  he  re- 
quested, "and  what  charmed  you  in  it  enough  to  make 
you  buy  it  suddenly  like  that.  How  did  you  come 
upon  it?" 

"I  had  just  arrived  from  America,  at  the  end  of  July 
of  1908 — four  years  ago — and  I  found,  when  I  got  to 
Cherbourg,  that  I  could  not  join  my  friend,  the  Prin- 
cess, as  I  had  intended,  because  her  husband  had  taken 

86 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

her  off  to  his  country  place  near  Naples.  So  I  hired 
a  motor  and  wandered  down  into  Brittany  alone.  I 
wanted  to  be  alone.  I  was  motoring  along,  when  a 
violent  storm  came  on,  furious  rain  and  wind,  and  just 
at  the  worst  and  weirdest  moment,  I  passed  Heronac, 
which  is  a  few  hundred  yards  from  the  edge  of  the 
present  village.  It  stands  out  in  the  sea  on  a  great 
spur  of  rock,  entirely  separated  from  the  main  land 
by  a  deep  chasm  about  thirty  feet  wide,  over  which 
there  was  then  a  broken  bridge  which  had  once  been  a 
drawbridge.  It  was  a  huge,  grim  ruin  with  only  a 
few  roofed  rooms,  built  in  about  the  thirteenth  century 
originally,  and  of  course  added  to  and  modernized. 
The  house  actually  standing  within  the  great  towers  is 
of  the  date  of  Louis  XIV.  It  stood  there,  a  dark 
mass,  defying  the  storm,  although  the  huge  waves 
splashed  right  up  to  the  windows." 

"It  sounds  repellent." 

"It  was — fierce  and  grim  and  repellent,  and  it  suited 
my  mood — so  I  stopped  at  the  Inn,  my  old  maid  Si- 
mone  and  I,  and  I  got  permission  to  go  and  see  it. 
The  landlord  of  the  Inn  had  the  keys.  The  last  of 
the  Heronacs  drank  himself  to  death  with  absinthe  in 
Paris,  so  the  place  was  closed,  and  was  no  doubt  for 
sale.  'Mais  ouif  he  told  us.  Simone  was  terrified 
to  cross  the  wretched  bridge,  with  the  water  swirling 
beneath,  and  we  left  her  to  go  back  to  the  Inn,  while 
the  landlord's  son  came  with  me.     It  was  about  four 

87 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

o'clock  in  ilie  afternoon,  and  was  a  most  extraordinary 
day,  for  now  it  began  to  thunder  and  lighten." 

"1  womlor  you  were  not  afraid." 

"I  .1111  Mivcr  afraid — I  tell  you,  it  suited  me.  There 
was  still  sonic  furniture  in  the  roofed  part  of  the  inner 
court,  and  in  the  two  great  towers  wliich  flank  the  main 
building — but  in  that  the  roof  was  off,  but  the  view  from 
the  windows  when  we  crept  along  to  them  across  the 
broken  floor  was  too  superb,  straight  out  to  the  ocean, 
the  waves  thundering  at  the  base.  "I  made  up  my 
mind  that  night  I  would  buy  it  if  I  could — and,  as  I 
told  3'ou  before,  I  did  so  in  the  following  week." 

"How  quaint  of  you !" 

"It  has  been  the  greatest  delight  to  me,  and,  as  you 
will  see,  I  have  done  something  with  it.  I  restored  the 
center,  and  have  made  its  arrangements  modern  and 
comfortable,  but  have  left  that  one  huge  room  on  the 
first  floor  as  it  was,  only  with  the  roof  mended.  I  spend 
hours  and  hours  in  the  deep  window  embrasures  look- 
ing right  over  the  sea.  It  has  taught  me  more  of  the 
meaning  of  things  than  all  my  books." 

"You  speak  as  though  you  were  an  old  woman," 
Lord  Fordyce  exclaimed,  "and  you  look  only  a  mere 
child  now — then,  when  you  bought  this  brigand's 
stronghold,  you  must  have  been  in  the  nursery !" 

"I  was  over  eighteen!" 

"A  colossal  age!  it  was  simply  ridiculous  for  you 
to  be  wanting  dark  castles   and   solitude.     What — .?" 

88 


THE    INIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

and  then  he  paused;  he  did  not  continue  his  question. 

"I  was  really  very  old — I  had  been  old  for  almost  a 
year." 

"And  do  you  mean  to  remain  old  always,  or  will  you 
ever  let  anyone  teach  you  to  be  young?" 

Sabine  looked  away  into  the  somber  fir  trees.  They 
had  got  to  a  part  of  the  path  where  the  woods  on 
either  side  are  black  as  night  in  their  depths. 

"I — don't — know,"  she  said,  very  low. 

Lord  Fordyce  moved  nearer  to  her. 

"I  wish  you  would  let  me  try  to  take  away  all  those 
somber  thoughts  I  see  sometimes  in  those  sweet  eyes." 

"How  would  you  begin?" 

"By  loving  you  very  much — and  then  by  trying  to 
make  you  love  me." 

"Does  love  take  away  dark  thoughts,  then — or  does 
it  bring  them?" 

"That  depends  upon  the  love,"  he  told  her,  eagerly. 
"When  it  is  great  enough  to  be  unselfish,  it  must  bring 
peace  and  happiness,  surely " 

"They  are  good  things — they  are  harmony — 
but " 

"Yes — what  are  the  buts  ?"  his  voice  trembled  a  little. 

"Love  seems  to  me  to  be  a  wild  thing,  a  raging,  tear- 
ing passion —     Can  it  ever  be  just  tender  and  kind?" 

"I  wish  you  would  let  me  prove  to  you  that  it  can." 

She  looked  into  his  face  gravely,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing but  honest  question  in  her  violet  eyes. 

89 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

♦'To  wlmt  end?"  slic  asked. 

"I  would  like  you  to  marry  me."  He  had  said  it 
now  when  he  had  not  intended  to  yet,  and  he  was  pale  as 
doatli. 

She  shrank  from  him  a  little. 

"But  surely  you  know  that  I  am  not  free !" 

"I  hoped  I — believed  that  you  can  make  yourself 
so — if  you  knew  how  I  love  you!  I  have  never  really 
loved  any  woman  before  in  my  life.  I  always  thought 
they  should  be  only  recreations — but  the  moment  I 
saw  you,  my  whole  opinions  changed." 

She  grew  troubled. 

"I  wish  you  had  not  said  this  to  me,"  she  faltered. 
"I — do  not  know  that  I  wish  to  change  my  life.  I 
could,  of  course,  be  free,  I  suppose — if  I  wanted  to  be 
— but — I  am  not  sure.  What  would  it  mean  if  I  lis- 
tened to  you.?  Tell  me!  I  am  sometimes  very  lonely 
— and  I  like  you  so  much." 

"I  want  to  make  you  feel  more  than  that,  but  I  will 
be  content  with  whatever  you  will  give  me.  I  do  not 
care  one  atom  what  dark  page  is  in  your  past,  I  know 
it  can  have  been  nothing  of  your  own  fault,  and  if  it 
were,  I  should  not  care — I  only  care  for  you — Sabine 
— will  you  not  tell  me  that  you  wiU  try  to  let  me 
make  you  happy.  It  would  mean  that,  that  I  should 
devote  my  whole  life  to  making  you  happy." 

"A  woman  should  be  contented  with  that,  surely," 
she  said.     And  if  Henry  Fordyce  had  had  his  usual 

90 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

critical  wits  about  him  unclouded  by  love,  he  would 
have  smiled  his  cynical  smile  and  have  said  to  himself: 

"The  spark  is  not  lit,  my  friend;  her  voice  lacks 
enthusiasm  and  her  brows  are  calm,"  but  he  was  like 
all  lovers — blind — and  only  saw  and  heard  what  could 
comfort  his  heart,  and  so  caught  at  the  straw  with 
delight. 

"Whatever  you  asked  I  would  give  you.  Only  say 
that  you  will  let  me  set  about  helping  you  to  be  free 
at  once." 

Mrs.  Howard,  however,  had  not  gone  this  far  in  her 
imaginings — the  idea  had  started  in  her  brain,  no  doubt, 
but  it  had  not  matured  yet,  and  all  was  hesitancy. 

"I  cannot  promise  anything.  You  must  give  me 
time  to  think,  Lord  Fordyce." 

"Dearest,  of  course  I  will — but  you  will  take  steps 
to  make  yourself  free — will  you  not.'*  I  have  not 
asked,  and  I  will  not  ask  you  a  single  question,  only 
that  you  will  tell  me  when  I  really  may  hope." 

His  voice  was  deep  with  feeling,  and  his  distin- 
guished, clever  face  was  eager  and  full  of  devotion, 
as  they  turned  an  abrupt  corner,  and  there  came  face 
to  face  with  two  of  their  American  acquaintances  in  the 
hotel. 

"Isn't  this  a  charming  walk,  Mrs.  Howard,"  and 
"Yes,  isn't  it!"  and  bows  and  passings  on;  but  it  broke 
the  current,  destroyed  the  spell,  and  released  some 
spirit  of  mischief  in  Sabine's  heart,  for  she  would  not 

91 


THE    ^lAN    AND    THE    IMOiNIENT 

be  grave  for  nnotlier  second.  Slie  made  Henry  prom- 
ise he  would  just  amuse  her  and  not  refer  again  to 
those  serious  topics  unless  she  gave  him  leave.  And  he, 
accustomed  to  go  his  own  way  unhampered  by  the 
caprices  of  the  gentle  sex,  agreed! — so  under  the  do- 
minion of  love  had  he  become !  for  a  woman,  too,  who 
in  herself  combined  three  tilings  he  had  always  disliked. 
She  was  an  American,  she  was  very  young,  and  she 
had  an  equivocal  position.  But  the  little  god  does  not 
consult  the  individual  before  he  shoots  his  darts,  and 
punishes  the  most  severely  those  who  have  denied  his 
power. 

By  the  time  they  had  reached  the  Savoy,  Sabine, 
with  that  aptitude,  though  it  was  perfectly  unconscious 
in  her,  which  is  the  characteristic  of  all  her  country- 
women, had  reduced  Lord  Fordyce  to  complete  sub- 
jection, so  that  he  was  ready  to  do  any  mortal  thing  in 
the  world  for  her,  and  willing  to  grasp  suggestions  of 
hope  upon  any  terms. 

She  gave  him  a  friendly  smile,  and  disappeared  up 
the  stairs  to  their  sitting-room — there  to  find  Moravia 
indulging  in  nerves. 

"I  just  want  to  scream,  darling!"  that  lady  said, 
and  Sabine  patted  her  hands. 

"Then  don't,  Morri,  dearest,"  she  implored  her. 
"You  only  want  to  because  your  mother,  if  she  had 
been  idle,  would  have  wanted  to  scrub  the  floors — just 
as  my  father's  business  capacity  came  out  in  me  just 

92 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

now,  and  I  fenced  with  and  sampled  a  very  noble  gentle- 
man instead  of  being  simple  with  him.  Let  us  get 
above  our  instincts — and  be  the  real  aristocrats  we  ap- 
pear to  the  world !" 

But  the  Princess  had  to  have  some  sal  volatile. 

That  night  after  dinner  waywardness  was  upon  Sa- 
bine. She  would  read  the  New  York  Herald,  which 
she  had  absolutely  not  glanced  at  since  their  arrival  at 
Carlsbad,  so  absorbed  and  entranced  had  she  been  in 
her  walks  in  the  green  woods,  and  so  little  interested 
was  she  ever  in  the  doing3  of  the  world. 

She  glanced  at  the  Trouville  news,  and  the  Hom- 
burg  news  with  wandering  mind,  and  then  her  eye  fell 
upon  the  polo  at  Ostende,  and  there  she  read  that  the 
English  team  had  been  giving  a  delightful  dance  at  the 
Casino,  where  Mr.  Michael  Arranstoun  had  sumptu- 
ously entertained  a  party  of  his  friends — amongst 
them  Miss  Daisy  Van  der  Horn.  The  paragraph  was 
worded  with  that  masterly  simplicity  which  distin- 
guishes intelligent,  modern  journalism;  and  left  the 
reader's  mind  confused  as  to  words,  but  clear  as  to 
suggestion.  Sabine  Howard  knew  Miss  Daisy  Van  der 
Horn.  As  she  read,  the  bright,  soft  color  left  her 
cheeks,  and  then  returned  with  a  brilliant  flush. 

It  was  the  first  time  for  five  years  she  had  ever  read 
the  name  of  Arranstoun  in  any  paper.  She  held  the 
sheet  firmly,  and  perused  all  the  other  information  of 
the  day — but  when  she  put  it  down,  and  joined  in  the 

98 


TIIK    lAIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

general  conversation,  it  could  have  been  remarked  that 
lior  eyes  were  glittering  like  fixed  stars. 

And  when,  for  a  moment,  they  all  went  out  on  the 
balcony  to  breathe  in  the  warm,  soft  night,  she  whis- 
pered to  Henry  Fordyce : 

"I  have  been  thinking — I  will,  at  all  events,  begin 
to  take  steps  to  be  free." 

But  to  his  rapturous,  "My  darling!"  she  replied, 
with  lowered  lids : 

"It  will  take  some  time — and  you  may  not  like  wait- 
ing— And  when  I  am  free — ^I  do  not  know — only — I  am 
tired,  and  I  want  someone  to  help  me  to  forget  and 
begin  again.     Good-night." 

Then,  after  she  got  to  her  room,  she  opened  the 
window  wide,  and  looked  out  upon  the  quiet  firs.  But 
nothing  stilled  the  unrest  in  her  heart. 


CHAPTER    \1II 

HERONAC  was  basking  in  the  sun  of  an  Au- 
gust morning,  like  some  huge  sea  monster 
which  had  clambered  upon  the  wet  rocks. 

The  sea  was  intensely  blue  without  a  ripple  upon  it, 
and  only  the  smallest  white  line  marked  where  its  waters 
caressed  the  shore. 

Nature  slumbered  in  the  heat  and  was  silent,  and 
Sabine  Howard,  the  chatelaine  of  this  quaint  chateau, 
stood  looking  out  of  the  deep  windows  in  her  great 
sitting-room.  It  was  a  wonderful  room.  She  had  col- 
lected dark  panelling  and  tapestry  to  hide  the  grim 
stone  walls,  and  had  managed  to  buy  a  splendidly 
carved  and  painted  roof,  while  her  sense  of  color  had 
run  riot  in  beautiful  silks  for  curtains.  It  was  a  re- 
markable achievement  for  one  so  young,  and  who  had 
begun  so  ignorantly.  Her  mother's  family  had  been 
decently  enough  bred,  and  her  maternal  grandfather 
had  been  a  fair  artist,  and  that  remarkable  American 
adaptability  which  she  had  inherited  from  her  father 
had  helped  her  in  many  ways.  Her  sitting-room  at 
Heronac  was,  of  course,  not  perfect ;  and  to  the  trained 

95 


THE    :\1AX    AND    THE    MOMENT 

eve  of  Henry  Fordjce  would  present  many  anomalies; 
but  no  one  could  deny  that  it  was  a  charming  apart- 
ment, or  that  it  was  a  glowing  frame  of  rich  tints  for 
her  youthful  freshness. 

She  had  really  studied  in  these  years  of  her  residence 
there,  and  each  month  put  something  worth  having 
into  the  storehouse  of  her  intelligent  mind.  She  was 
as  immeasurably  removed  from  the  Sabine  Delburg  of 
convent  days  as  light  from  darkness,  and  her  com- 
panion had  often  been  Monsieur  le  Cure,  an  enchant- 
ing Jesuit  priest,  who  had  the  care  of  the  souls  of 
Heronac  village.  A  great  cynic,  a  pure  Christian  and 
a  man  of  parts — a  distant  connection  of  the  original 
family — Gaston  d'Heronac  had  known  the  world  in  his 
day ;  and  after  much  sorrow  had  found  a  hermitage  in 
his  own  village — a  consolation  in  the  company  of  this 
half-French,  half-American  heiress,  who  had  incorpo- 
rated herself  with  the  soil.  He  was  now  seventy  years 
of  age  and  always  a  gentleman,  with  few  of  the  tire- 
some habits  of  the  old. 

What  joy  he  had  found  in  opening  the  mind  of  his 
young  Dame  d'Heronac ! 

It  was  frankly  admitted  that  there  were  to  be  no  dis- 
cussions upon  religion. 

"I  am  a  pagan,  cher  pere,"  Sabine  had  said,  almost 
immediately,  "leave  me! — and  let  me  enjoy  your  sweet 
church  and  your  fisherfolks'  faith.  I  will  come  there 
every  Sunday  and  say  my  prayers — mes  prieres  a  moi 

96 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

— and  then  we  can  discuss  philosophy  aftenvards  or — 
what  you  wilL" 

And  the  priest  had  rephed : 

"Rehgion  is  not  of  dogma.  The  paganism  of  Dame 
Sabine  is  as  good  in  the  sight  of  le  bon  Dieu  as  the 
behef  of  Jean  Rivee,  who  knows  that  his  boat  was 
guided  into  the  harbor  on  the  night  of  the  great 
storm  by  the  Holy  Virgin,  who  posed  Herself  by 
the  helm.  Heavens!  yes — it  is  God  who  judges — not 
priests." 

It  can  be  easily  understood  that  with  two  minds  of 
this  breadth,  Pere  Anselme  and  Sabine  Howard  became 
real  friends. 

The  Cure,  when  he  read  with  her  the  masters  of  the 
dix-septieme  and  the  dix-limtieme  had  a  quaintly  hu- 
morous expression  in  his  old  black  eye. 

"Not  for  girls  or  for  priests — but  for  des  gens  du 
monde"  he  said  to  her  one  day,  on  putting  down  a 
volume  of  Voltaire. 

"Of  what  matter,"  Sabine  had  answered.  "Since  I 
am  not  a  girl,  cher  maitre,  and  you  were  once  not  a 
priest,  and  we  are  both  gens  du  monde — hem?" 

His  breeding  had  been  of  enormous  advantage  to 
him,  enabling  him  to  refrain  from  asking  Sabine  a 
single  question;  but  he  knew  from  her  ejaculations  as 
time  went  on  that  she  had  passed  through  some  furnace 
during  her  eighteenth  year,  and  it  had  seared  her 
deeply.     He  even  knew  more  than  this ;  he  knew  almost 

97 


THE  ^lAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

as  mucli  as  Slmone,  eventually,  but  it  was  all  locked  in 
his  breast  and  never  even  alluded  to  between  them. 

Sabine  was  waiting  for  him  at  this  moment  upon  this 
glorious  day  in  August.  Pcrc  Anselme  was  going  to 
breakfast  with  her. 

He  was  announced  presently,  courtly  and  spare  and 
distinguished  in  his  thread-bare  soutane,  and  they  went 
in  to  the  breakfast-room,  a  round  chamber  in  the  ad- 
joining tower  which  had  kitchens  beneath.  The  walls 
were  here  so  thick,  that  only  the  sky  could  be  seen  from 
any  window  except  the  southeastern  one,  from  which 
you  reviewed  the  gray  slate  roofs  of  the  later  building 
within  the  courtyard,  the  part  which  had  been  always 
habitable  and  which  contained  the  salons  and  the 
guest  chambers,  with  only  an  oblique  view  of  the  sea. 
Here,  in  Heronac's  mistress'  own  apartments,  the  waves 
eternally  encircled  the  base,  and  on  rough  days  rose  in 
great  clouds  of  spray  almost  to  the  deep  muUions. 

"I   am   having   visitors,   Pere  Anselme,"    Sabine  re- 
marked,  when   Nicholas,  her  fat  butler,  was   handing    ' 
the    omelette.     "Madame   Imogen   is    enchanted,"    and 
she  smiled  at  that  lady  who  had  been  waiting  for  de- 
jeuner in  the  room  before  they  had  entered. 

"Tant  mieux!"  responded  the  priest,  with  his  mouth 
full  of  egg  and  mushroom.  In  his  youth,  the  Heronacs 
had  not  imported  English  nurses,  and  he  ate  as  his 
fathers  had  done  before  him. 

"So  much  the  better.     Our  lady  is  too  given  to  soli- 

98 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

tude,  and  but  for  the  meteor-like  descents  of  the  Prin- 
cess Torniloni  and  her  tamed  father — "  (he  used  the 
word  aprivoise — "son  pere  aprivoise" !)  we  should  here 
see  very  little  of  the  outside  world.  And  of  what  sex, 
madame,  are  these  new  acquaintances,  if  one  may  ask?" 

"They  are  men,  cher  pere — bold,  bad  Englishmen ! — 
think  of  it !  but  I  can  only  tell  you  the  name  of  one  of 
them — the  other  is  problematical — he  has  merely  been 
spoken  of  as,  'My  friend' — but  he  is  young,  I  gather, 
so  just  the  affaire  of  Mere  Imogen !" 

"Why,  that's  likely !"  chirped  Madame  Imogen,  with 
a  strong  American  accent,  in  her  French  English. 
"But  I  do  pine  for  some  gay  things  down  here,  don't 
you,  Father?" 

Pere  Anselme  was  heard  to  murmur  that  he  found 
youth  enough  in  his  hostess,  if  you  asked  him. 

"At  the  same  time,  we  must  welcome  these  English- 
men," he  added,  "should  they  be  people  of  cultivation." 
He  had  heard  that,  in  their  upper  classes,  the  English- 
men of  to-day  were  still  the  greatest  gentlemen  left, 
and  he  would  be  pleased  to  meet  examples  of  them, 

"They  will  arrive  at  about  five  o'clock,  I  suppose," 
Sabine  announced.  "Have  you  seen  about  their  rooms. 
Mere  Imogen?  Lord  Fordyce  is  to  have  the  Louis 
XIV  suite,  and  the  friend  the  one  beyond ;  and  we  will 
only  let  them  come  into  our  house  if  they  do  not  bore 
us.  We  shall  dine  in  the  salle-a-manger  to-night  and 
sit  in  the  big  salon." 

99 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

Tlicse  rooms  were  seldom  opened,  except  when  Prin- 
cess Torniloni  came  to  stay  and  brought  her  son,  Sa- 
bine's godchild,  who  had  elaborate  nurseries  prepared 
for  him.  No  other  visitor  had  ever  crossed  the  cause- 
way, and  jNIadame  Imogen's  cute  mind  was  asking  it- 
self why  clemency  had  been  accorded  to  these  two 
Britons.  The  English,  as  she  knew,  were  not  a  fa- 
vored race  with  her  employer. 

They  had  been  together  for  about  two  years  now, 
she  and  Sabine — and  were  excellent  friends. 

]\Iadame  Imogen  Aubert  had  been  in  great  straits  in 
Paris,  when  Sabine  had  heard  of  her  through  one  of  her 
many  American  acquaintances.  Stupid  speculation  by 
an  over-confident,  silly  French  husband  just  before 
his  death  in  Nevada  had  been  the  reason.  Madame 
Imogen  had  the  kindest  heart  and  the  hardest  common 
sense,  and  did  credit  to  a  distant  Scotch  descent.  She 
adored  Sabine,  as  indeed  she  had  reason  to  do,  and 
looked  after  her  house  and  her  servants  with  a  hawk's 
eye. 

After  dejeuner  was  over,  the  Dame  d'Heronac  and 
the  Cure  crossed  the  causeway  bridge,  and  beyond 
the  gi'cat  towered  gate  entered  another  at  the  side, 
which  conducted  them  into  the  garden,  which  sheltered 
itself  behind  immensely  big  walls  from  the  road  which 
curled  beyond  it,  and  the  sea  which  bounded  it  on  the 
northwest.  Here,  whatever  horticultural  talent  and 
money  could  procure  had  been  lavished  for  four  years, 

100 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

and  the  results  were  beginning  to  show.  It  was  a  glori- 
ous mass  of  summer  flowers ;  and  was  the  supreme 
pleasure  of  Pere  Anselme.  He  gardened  with  the  fer- 
vor of  an  enthusiast,  and  was  the  joy  and  terror  of 
the  gardeners. 

They  spent  two  hours  in  delightful  work,  and  then 
the  Cure  went  his  way — but  just  before  he  left  for 
the  hundred  j^ards  down  the  road  where  his  cottage 
stood,  Sabine  said  to  him : 

"Regard  well  Lord  Fordyce  to-night,  mon  pere.  It 
is  possible  I  may  decide  to  know  him  very  intimately 
some  day — when  I  am  free." 

The  old  priest  looked  at  her  questioningly. 

"You  intend  to  remove  your  shackles  yourself,  then, 
my  child?  You  will  not  leave  the  affair  to  the  good 
God— no?" 

"I  think  that  it  will  be  wiser  that  I  should  be  free 
soon,  mon  pere — le  bon  Dieu  helps  those  who  help 
themselves.  Au  revoir — and  do  not  be  late  for  the 
Englishmen." 

The  priest  shrugged  his  high  shoulders,  as  he  walked 
off. 

*'The  dear  child,"  he  said  to  himself.  "She  does  not 
know  it,  but  the  image  of  the  fierce  one  has  not  faded 
entirely  even  yet — it  is  natural,  though,  that  she  should 
think  of  a  mate.  I  must  well  examine  this  English- 
man !" 

Sabine  went  back  into  the  walled  garden  again,  and 

101 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

sat  down  under  the  shelter  of  an  arbour  of  green. 
Slie  wanted  to  re-read  a  letter  of  Henry  Fordyce's, 
which  she  had  received  that  day  by  the  early  and  only 
post. 

It  was  rather  a  perfect  letter  for  any  young  woman 
to  have  got,  and  she  knew  that  and  valued  all  its  liter- 
ary and  artistic  merits. 

They  had  had  long  and  frequent  conversations  in 
tlieir  last  three  days  at  Carlsbad,  during  which  they 
had  grown  nearer  and  still  better  friends.  His  gentle- 
ness, his  courtesy  and  diffidence  were  such  incense  to 
her  self-esteem,  considering  the  position  of  importance 
he  held  in  his  own  country  and  the  great  place  he 
seemed  to  occupy  in  the  Princess'  regard.  And  he  was 
her  servant — her  slave — and  would  certainly  make  the 
most  tender  lover — some  day! 

On  their  last  afternoon,  he  had  taken  her  hands  and 
kissed  them. 

"Sabine,"  he  had  said,  with  his  voice  trembling  with 
emotion.  "I  have  shown  you  that  I  can  control  my- 
self, and  have  not  made  any  love  to  you  as  I  have 
longed  to  do.  Won't  you  be  generous,  dearest,  and 
give  me  some  definite  hope — some  definite  promise  that, 
when  you  are  free,  you  will  give  yourself  to  me  and  will 
be  my  wife ?" 

And  she  had  answered — with  more  fervor  than  she 
really  felt,  because  she  would  hide  some  unaccountable 
reluctance : 

102 


THE    IMAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

"Yes — I  have  written  to-day  to  my  lawyer,  Mr.  Par- 
sons— to  advise  me  how  to  begin  to  take  the  necessary 
steps — and  when  it  all  goes  through,  then — yes — I  will 
marry  you." 

But  she  would  not  let  him  kiss  her,  which  he  showed 
signs  of  desiring  to  do. 

"You  must  wait  until  I  am  free,  though  my  marriage 
is  no  tie;  it  has  never  been  one — after  the  first  year. 
I  will  tell  you  the  whole  story,  If  you  want  to  hear  it — 
but  I  wish  to  forget  It  all — only  it  is  fair  for  you  to 
know  there  is  no  disgrace  connected  with  it  in  any 
way." 

"I  should  not  care  one  atom  if  there  were,"  Henry 
said,  ecstatically.  "You  yourself  could  never  have 
touched  any  disgrace.  Your  eyes  are  as  pure  as  the 
stars !" 

"I  was  extremely  Ignorant  and  foolish,  as  one  is  at 
seventeen.  And  now  I  want  to  make  something  of  life 
— some  great  thing — and  your  goodness  and  your  high 
and  fine  ideals  will  help  me." 

"My  dearest!"  he  had  cried  fervently. 

Sabine  had  said  to  the  Princess  that  night,  as  they 
talked  in  their  sitting-room : 

"Do  you  know,  MorrI,  I  have  almost  decided  to 
marry  this  Englishman — some  day.  You  have  often 
told  me  I  was  foolish  not  to  free  myself  from  any 
bonds,  however  lightly  they  held  me — and  I  have  never 
wanted  to — but  now  I  do — at  once — as  soon  as  possible 

103 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

— before — my  husband  can  suggest  being  free  of  me! 
I  liave  written  to  Mr.  Parsons  already — and  I  suppose 
it  will  not  take  very  long.  The  laws  there,  I  believe, 
are  not  so  binding  as  in  England — "  and  then  she 
stopped  short. 

""The  laws — where?"  JNIoravia  could  not  refrain  from 
asking;  her   curiosity   had  at  last   won  the  day. 

"In  Scotland,  Morri.  He  was  a  Scotchman,  not  an 
American  at  all  as  every  one  supposes." 

The  Princess'  eyes  opened  wide — and  she  had  to 
bite  her  lips  to  keep  from  asking  more. 

"I  have  never  seen  him  since  the  day  after  we  were 
married — there  cannot  be  any  difficulty  about  getting 
a  divorce — can  there?" 

"None,  I  should  think,"  the  Princess  said  shortly, 
and  they  kissed  one  another  good-night  and  each  went 
to  her  room. 

But  Moravia  sat  a  long  time,  after  her  maid  had 
left  her,  staring  into  space. 

Fate  was  very  cruel  and  contrary.  It  gave  her 
everything  that  most  people  could  want,  and  refused 
her  the  one  thing  she  desired  herself. 

"He  adores  Sabine — who  will  trample  on  him — she 
always  rules  everything — and  I  would  have  been  his 
sympathetic  companion,  and  would  have  let  him  rule 
me — !"  Then  something  she  could  not  reconcile  in 
her  mind  struck  her. 

If  Sabine  had  never  seen  her  husband  since  the  day 

104 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

after  she  was  married — what  had  caused  her  to  be  so 
pale  and  sad  and  utterly  changed  when  she  came  to  her, 
Moravia,  in  Rome — a  year  or  more  afterwards,  and  to 
have  made  her  break  entirely  with  her  uncle  and  aunt? 
The  secret  of  her  friend's  life  lay  in  that  year — that 
year  after  she  herself  married  and  went  oif  with  her 
husband  Girolamo  to  Italy — the  year  which  Sabine 
had  spent  in  America — alone.  But  she  knew  very  well 
that,  fond  as  they  were  of  one  another,  Sabine  would 
probably  never  tell  her  about  it.  So  presently  she  got 
into  bed  and,  sighing  at  the  incongruity  and  inconsid- 
erateness  of  circumstance,  she  turned  out  the  light. 

Sabine  that  same  night  read  of  further  entertain- 
ments at  Ostende  in  the  New  York  Herald — and  shut 
her  full,  firm  lips  with  an  ominous  force.  And  so  she  and 
Henry  had  parted  at  the  Carlsbad  station  next  day  with 
the  understanding  between  them  that,  when  Sabine  could 
tell  him  that  she  was  free,  he  would  be  at  liberty  to  press 
his  suit  and  she  would  give  a  favorable  answer. 

She  thought  of  these  past  things  now  for  a  moment 
while  she  re-read  Lord  Fordyce's  letter.  It  told  her, 
there  in  her  Heronac  garden,  in  a  hurried  P.  S.  that 
a  friend  had  joined  him  that  moment  at  Havre,  and 
clamored  to  be  taken  on  the  trip,  too,  claiming  an  old 
promise.     He  was  quite  a  nice  young  man — but  if  she 

did  not  want  any  extra  person,  she  was  to  wire  to , 

where  they  would  arrive  about  eleven  o'clock,  and 
there   this    interloper   should   be   ruthlessly    marooned! 

105 


THE    ]\IAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

The  post  had  evidently  been  goin^,  and  the  P.  S.  must 
hav^  been  written  in  frightful  haste  after  the  advent 
of  tlie  friend — for  his  name  was  not  even  given. 

Sabine  had  not  wired.  She  felt  a  certain  sense  of 
relief.  It  would  make  someone  to  talk  to  Madame 
Imogen  and  the  Cure — and  cause  there  to  be  no  gene. 

Then  her  thoughts  turned  to  Henry  himself  with 
tender  friendship.  So  dear  a  companion,  and  how 
glad  she  would  be  to  see  him  again.  The  ten  days 
since  they  had  parted  at  Carlsbad  seemed  actually 
long!  Surely  it  was  a  wise  thing  to  do  to  start  her 
real  life  with  one  whom  she  could  so  truly  respect; 
there  could  be  no  pitfalls  and  disappointments !  And 
his  great  position  in  England  would  give  scope  for  her 
ambition,  which  never  could  be  satisfied  like  Moravia's 
with  just  social  things.  She  would  begin  to  study  Eng- 
lish politics  and  the  other  great  matters  which  Henry 
was  interested  in.  He  would  find  that  what  she  had 
told  him  at  Carlsbad  was  true,  and  that,  although  he 
was  naturally  prejudiced  against  Americans,  he  would 
have  to  admit  that  she,  as  his  wife,  played  the  part  as 
well,  if  not  better,  than  one  of  his  own  countrywomen 
could  have  done.  She  thrilled  a  little  as  the  picture 
came  up  before  her  of  the  large  outlook  she  would  have 
to  survey,  and  the  great  situation  she  would  have  to 
adorn,  but  sure  of  Henry's  devoted  kindness  and 
gentleness  all  the  time. 

Yes — she   would    certainly   marry  him,   perhaps    by 

106 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

next  year.  Mr.  Parsons  had  written  only  yesterday, 
saying  he  had  begun  to  take  steps,  as  her  freedom  must 
come  from  the  side  of  her  husband — who  could  divorce 
her  for  desertion.  She  could  not  urge  this  plea 
against  him,  since  she  had  left  him  of  her  own  free 
will. 

"He  will  jump  at  the  chance,  naturally,"  she  said  to 
herself — "and  then,  perhaps,  he  will  marry  Daisy  Van 
der  Horn !" 

She  was  still  a  very  young  woman,  you  see,  for  all 
her  four  years  of  deep  education  in  the  world  of  books ! 

She  put  the  letter  back  in  her  basket  below  the 
flowers  she  had  picked,  and  prepared  to  return  to  the 
chateau.  To  arrange  various  combinations  of  color  in 
vases  was  her  peculiar  joy — and  her  flower  decorations 
were  her  special  care.  She  was  just  entering  the  great 
towered  gate  of  Heronac  where  resided  the  concierge, 
when  she  heard  the  whir  of  a  motor  approaching  in 
the  distance,  and  she  hurriedly  slipped  inside  old 
Berthe's  parlor.  She  disliked  dust  and  strangers,  who, 
fortunately,  very  seldom  came  upon  this  unbeaten 
track. 

She  was  watching  from  the  window  until  they  should 
have  passed — it  could  not  be  her  guests,  it  was  quite 
an  hour  too  soon,  when  the  motor  whizzed  round  the 
bend  and  stopped  short  at  the  gate!  It  was  a  big 
open  one,  and  the  occupants  wore  goggles  over  their 
eyes ;  but  she  recognized  Lord  Fordycc's  figure,  as  he 

107 


THE    .AIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

got  out.  followed  by  a  very  tall  young  man,  who  called 
out  cheerily: 

"Yes — this  must  be  the  brigand's  stronghold,  Henry ; 
let's  thunder  at  the  bell." 

Then  for  a  moment  her  knees  gave  way  beneath  her, 
and  she  sank  into  Berthc's  cai^'cd  oaken  chair.  For 
the  voice  w^as  the  voice  of  Michael  Arranstoun — and 
when  he  pulled  the  goggles  off,  she  could  see,  as  she 
peered  through  the  window,  his  sunburnt  face  and  bold 
blue  eyes. 


CHAPTER    IX 

OSTENDE  had  begun  to  bore  Michael  Arrans- 
toun  intolerably — ^he  had  lamed  his  best 
pony  and  Miss  Daisy  Van  der  Horn  was  get- 
ting on  his  nerves.  At  Ostende  she,  to  use  one  of  her 
own  expressions,  "was  not  the  only  pebble  on  the 
beach."  His  nerves  had  had  a  good  deal  of  exercise 
among  that  exceedingly  pleasure-loving,  frolicsome 
crew. 

Five  years  in  the  wilds  had  not  changed  him  much, 
except  to  add  to  his  annoying  charm.  He  was  more 
absolutely  dare-devil  and  sure  of  himself  and  careless 
of  all  else  than  ever.  Miss  Daisy  Van  der  Horn — and 
a  number  of  Clarices  and  Germaines  and  Lolos — were 
"just  crazy"  about  him.  And  they  mattered  to  him 
not  a  single  straw.  He  laughed — and  kissed  them  when 
he  felt  inclined,  and  then  when  all  had  begun  to  weary 
him  he  rode  away — or  rather  sent  his  polo  ponies  back 
to  England  and  got  into  the  express  for  Paris,  expect- 
ing there  to  find  Henry  Fordyce  returned  from  Carls- 
bad— only  to  hear  that  he  had  just  started  in  his  motor 

109 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    INIOMENT 

for  Brittany,  and  by  that  evening  would  have  arrived 
at  Havre. 

Michael  had  nothing  special  to  do  and  so  followed 
him  there  at  once  by  train,  coming  upon  him  just  as  he 
was  closing  his  letter  to  Mrs.  Howard.  Then  in  his 
usual  wliirlwind  way,  which  must  be  obeyed — he  had 
persuaded  Henry  to  take  liim  on  with  him,  inwardly 
against  that  astute  politician's,  but  diffident  lover's  will. 

"Look  here,  Michael,"  he  had  said,  "I  am  going  to 
see  the  lady  of  my  heart — you  know,  and  you  will 
probably  be  in  the  way !" 

"Not  a  bit,  old  boy — I'll  play  the  helpful  friend 
and  spin  things  along.     What's  she  like.''" 

Here  Lord  Fordyce  gave  a  guarded  description — 
but  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  man  who  is  no  longer 
quite  young  but  madly  in  love. 

"Good  Lord!"  whistled  Michael.  "She  must  be  a 
daisy !  And  when  are  you  going  to  be  married,  old 
man.'*  I'll  lend  you  Arranstoun  for  the  honeymoon — 
damned  good  place  for  a  honeymoon — "  and  then  he 
stopped  short  suddenly  and  laughed  with  a  strange  re- 
gretful sound  in  his  mirth. 

"Alas!"  Henry  sighed.  "I  cannot  say — she  is  an 
American,  you  know,  and  has  been  married  to  a  brute 
of  her  own  nation  out  west,  whom  she  has  to  get  per- 
fectly free  of  before  I  can  have  the  honor  to  call  her 
mine." 

"Whew!" 

110 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

**Yes,  it  is  a  dreadful  bore  having  to  wait.  Thej 
arrange  divorces  wonderfully  well  over  there  though  it 
is  only  a  question  of  a  few  months,  I  suppose — but  she 
would  be  worth  waiting  for  for  ten  years " 

"It  is  simply  glorious  to  hear  you  raving  so,  old 
bird!"  Michael  laughed.  "When  I  think  of  the  lec- 
tures you  used  to  give  me  about  women — mere  recrea- 
tions for  a  man's  leisure  moments,  I  think  you  called 
them,  and  not  to  be  taken  seriously  in  a  man's  real 
life !" 

"I  have  completely  changed  my  opinions,"  Lord 
Fordyce  announced,  rather  nettled.  "So  would  any 
man  if  he  knew  Mrs.  Howard." 

"Howard?"  asked  Michael — "but  anyone  can  be  a 
Talbot  or  a  Howard  or  a  Cavendish  out  there — so  she 
is  a  Mrs.  Howard,  is  she?  I  wonder  who  the  husband 
was — I  had  a  rascally  cousin  of  that  name  who  went  to 
Arizona — perhaps  she  married  him." 

"Her  husband  was  an  American,"  Henry  rejoined, 
"and  is  in  a  madhouse  or  an  institution  for  inebriates, 
I  believe." 

"Well,  I  wish  you  all  joy,  Henry,  I  do,  indeed — and 
I  promise  you  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  help  you  through 
with  it.  I  won't  retaliate  for  your  thundering  nig- 
gardness  five  years  ago,  when  you  would  not  even  be 
my  best  man,  do  you  remember?" 

"This  is  quite  different,  my  dear  boy,"  Lord  For- 
dyce assured  him  with  dignity.     "You  were  going  to 

111 


THE    INIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

do  what  I  thouglit  a  most  casual  thing,  just  for  your 
own  ends,  but  I — Michael — "  and  his  cultivated  voice 
vibrated  with  feeling — "I  love  tliis  woman  as  I  never 
thought  I  should  love  anything  on  God's  earth." 

"Then  here's  to  you!"  said  Mr.  Arranstoun,  and 
ringing  the  bell  for  the  waiter,  ordered  a  pint  of  cham- 
pagne to  drink  his  friend's  health. 

So  they  had  started  in  the  motor  after  breakfast  next 
day  and  that  night  slept  at  St.  Malo — getting  to  Hero- 
nac  without  adventure  the  following  afternoon. 

When  no  telegram  was  awaiting  Lord  Fordyce  at 
where  they  breakfasted,  he  remarked  to  Michael: 

"She  does  not  mind  your  coming — or  she  would  have 
wired — I  wish  I  were  as  indifferent  about  it — Michael 
— "  and  Henry  stammered  a  little — "you'll  promise 
me  as  a  friend — ^you  will  not  look  into  her  eyes 
with  your  confounded  blue  ones  and  try  to  cut  me 
out." 

For  some  reason  this  appeal  touched  something  in 
Michael's  heart,  his  voice  was  full  of  cordiality  and  his 
blue  bold  eyes  swam  with  kindly  affection  as  he  an- 
swered : 

"I'm  not  a  beast,  Henry — and  I  don't  want  every 
woman  I  see — and  anyone  you  fancied  would  in  any 
case  be  sacred  to  me,"  and  he  held  out  his  hand.  "Give 
you  my  word  as  I  told  you  before,  I'll  not  only  promise 
you  on  my  honor  that  I'll  not  cut  In  myself,  but  I'll 
do  everything  I  can  to  help  you,  old  man,"  then  he 

112 


THE    ]\IAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

laughed  to  liide  the  seriousness  of  his  feeling — "even  to 
lending  Arranstoun  for  the  honeymoon." 

So  they  grasped  hands  and  sealed  the  bargain  and 
got  into  the  motor  and  went  on  their  way. 

The  first  view  of  Heronac  had  enchanted  them  both, 
it  was  indeed  a  unique  place. 

"What  taste!"  Henry  had  said.  "Fancy  a  young 
woman  knowing  and  seeing  at  once  the  possibilities  of 
such  a  place !" 

"It  is  as  grim  as  Arranstoun  and  nearly  as  old," 
Michael  exclaimed,     "I  am  glad  we  came." 

Sabine  shrank  back  into  Berthe's  little  kitchen  and 
signalled  to  her  not  to  make  known  the  hostess'  pres- 
ence— but  to  let  the  gentlemen  drive  over  the  causeway 
bridge  to  the  courtyard — where  they  would  be  told  by 
Nicholas  that  she  was  in  the  garden,  and  would  prob- 
ably be  brought  there  to  her  by  Madame  Imogen  who 
would  have  welcomed  them. 

Her  firm  will  forced  her  to  pull  herself  together  and 
decide  what  to  do  when  they  should  come  face  to  face. 
To  be  totally  unconcerned  was  the  best  thing — to  look 
and  act  as  though  Michael  Arranstoun  were  indeed  a 
perfect  stranger  introduced  to  her  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life.  It  would  take  him  some  moments  to  be  cer- 
tain that  she  was  Sabine — his  wife — and  he  would  then 
not  be  likely  to  make  a  scene  before  Henry — and  when 
the  moment  for  plain  speaking  came,  she  would  sternly 
demand  to  be  set  free.     She  had  kept  silence  to  Henry 

lis 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

as  to  who  her  husband  really  was — for  no  reason  ex- 
cept that  the  whole  subject  disturbed  her  greatly — the 
very  mention  of  Michael's  name  or  the  thought  of  him 
always  filling  her  with  wild  and  mixed  emotions.  She 
had  schooled  herself  in  the  years  that  had  gone  by  since 
their  parting,  into  absolutely  banishing  his  memory 
every  time  it  recurred.  She  had  a  vague  feeling  that 
she  must  be  free  of  him,  and  safe  before  she  could  even 
pronounce  his  name  to  Lord  Fordyce,  who  naturally 
must  know  eventually.  There  was  an  unaccountable 
and  not  understood  fear  in  her — fear  that  in  the  dis- 
cussion which  must  arise  if  she  spoke  of  who  her  hus- 
band was  to  Henry,  that  something  might  transpire,  or 
that  she  might  hear  something  which  would  reawaken 
certain  emotions,  and  weaken  her  determination  to 
break  the  even  empty  bond  with  Michael.  And  now 
she  had  seen  him  again  with  her  mortal  eyes,  and  she 
knew  that  she  was  trembling  and  tingling  with  a  mad 
sensation  of  she  knew  not  what — hatred  and  revulsion 
she  hoped !  but  was  only  sure  of  one  aspect  of  it — that 
of  wild  excitement. 

No  one — not  a  single  soul — neither  Simone — 
Madame  Imogen — nor  Pere  Anselme  himself  must  be 
allowed  to  see  that  she  recognized  Michael — her  belief 
that  her  countrywomen  were  fine  actresses  should  stand 
her  in  good  stead,  and  enable  her  to  play  this  part  of 
unconsciousness  to  perfection.  She  would  conquer 
herself — and  she  stamped  her  little  foot  there  in  the 

114 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

high  turret  bower  in  the  garden  where  she  had  retired. 
Its  windows  opened  straight  out  to  the  sea  and  she 
often  had  tea  there.  There  would  be  no  use  in  all  her 
prayers  for  calm  and  poise  if  they  should  desert  her 
now  in  this  great  crisis  of  her  hfe.  She  was  bound  to 
Henry  by  her  promised  word,  given  of  her  own  free  will 
— and  she  meant  to  keep  it,  and  do  ever3"thing  in  her 
power  to  make  herself  free.  She  was  an  extremely 
honest  person,  honest  even  with  herself,  and  she  realized 
that  either  her  own  weakness  or  indecision,  or  some 
other  motive  had  forced  her  to  give  a  definite  answer 
to  Lord  Fordyce — and  that  he  was  too  fine  a  character 
to  be  played  with  and  tossed  about  because  of  her 
moods.  She  had  mastered  every  sign  of  emotion  by 
the  time  Madame  Imogen's  comfortable  figure,  accom- 
panied by  the  two  men,  could  be  seen  advancing  in  the 
distance.  She  rose  with  the  gracious  smile  of  a  hostess 
and  held  out  her  hand — pleased  surprise  upon  her 
face. 

"So  you  have  come !  but  earlier  than  I  thought,"  and 
she  shook  hands  with  Henry,  and  then  turned  to  his 
friend  without  the  slightest  embarrassment,  as  Lord 
Fordyce  spoke  his  name. 

"How  do  3'ou  do,"  she  said  politely.  "You  are  both 
very  welcome  to  Heron ac." 

Michael  had  merely  seen  a  pretty  outline  of  a  young 
woman  until  they  had  got  quite  close  and  she  had 
raised  her  head  and  lifted  the  shadow  of  her  big  garden 

115 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

sun-bonnet — and  then  he  stiffened  suddenly  and  grew 
very  pale.  He  was  a  little  behind  the  other  two,  and 
they  observed  nothing,  but  Sabine  saw  the  change  of 
color  in  his  healthy  handsome  face,  and  the  look  of 
surprise  and  incredulity  and  puzzle  which  grew  in  his 
blue  eyes. 

"How  do  you  do?"  he  murmured,  and  then  pulled 
himself  together  and  looked  at  her  hard. 

But  she  stood  his  scrutiny  with  perfect  unconcern — 
even  meeting  his  eye  with  a  blank,  agreeable  want  of 
recognition ;  while  she  made  some  ordinary  remark 
about  their  journey.     Then  pointing  to  her  basket: 

'*See — I  was  picking  flowers  for  my  sitting-room  and 
I  did  not  expect  you  for  another  hour — ^what  a  silent 
motor  you  must  have  that  its  noise  did  not  penetrate 
here !" 

Henry  was  so  overcome  with  joy  to  see  her,  and  that 
she  should  be  so  gracious  and  sweet — he  said  all  sorts 
of  nice  things  and  walked  by  her  side  as  they  came  down 
from  the  turret  summer-house.  She  looked  the  picture 
of  a  fresh  June  rose  as  she  carried  her  basket  full  of 
August  flowers — phloxes  and  penstemons  and  a  great 
bunch  of  late  sweet  peas.  And  Michael  felt  almost 
that  he  was  staggering  a  little  as  he  followed  with 
Madame  Imogen,  the  shock  had  been  so  great. 

Was  it  really  Sabine — ^his  wife! — or  could  she  have 
a  double  in  the  world.  Maddening  uncertainty  was  his 
portion.     He  must  know,  he  must  be  certain — and  if 

116 


THE  MAN    AND  THE  MOMENT 

she  were  his  wife — what  then?  What  did  it  mean? 
He  could  not  claim  her — she  was  engaged  to  Henry, 
his  friend — to  whom  he  had  given  his  word  of  honor 
that  he  would  help  as  much  as  he  could.  It  was  no 
wonder  that  he  answered  Madame  Imogen's  prattle, 
crisp  and  American  and  amusing  though  it  was,  quite  at 
random — his  whole  attention  being  upon  the  pair  in 
front. 

Sabine  also  found  that  she  was  not  hearing  a  word 
Henry  said,  but  that  the  wildest  excitement  which  she 
had  ever  known  was  coursing  through  her  blood.  At 
last  she  did  catch  that  he  was  telling  her  that  never  had 
she  been  more  beautiful  or  had  brighter  eyes. 

"This  place  must  suit  you  even  better  than  Carls- 
bad," he  said. 

She  answered  laughingly  and  led  the  way  toward 
the  gate  and  so  across  the  causeway  and  on  into  her 
own  sitting-room  where  they  would  find  tea.  She  sup- 
posed afterwards  that  she  had  talked  sensibly,  but  never 
had  any  recollection  of  what  she  had  said. 

The  room  was  looking  singularly  beautiful  with  the 
wonderful  coloring  of  the  splendid  curtains,  and  the 
tapestry  and  dark  wood.  And  it  was  a  homely  place, 
too,  with  quantities  of  book-cases  and  comfortable 
chairs  for  all  its  vast  size.  Michael  thought  there  was 
a  faint  look  of  his  own  room  at  Arranstoun — and  he 
joined  the  two  who  had  advanced  to  one  of  the  huge 
embrasures  of  the  windows  where  the  tea  table  was  laid 

117 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

— here   there  were   velvet-covered   window   seats   where 
one  could  lounge  and  gaze  out  at  the  sea. 

"What  an  exquisite  place!"  he  exclaimed.  "It  re- 
minds me  of  Arranstoun,  does  it  not  you,  Henry.? — 
although  that  is  not  near  the  sea." 

The  color  deepened  in  Sabine's  cheeks — ^had  she  un- 
consciously made  it  resemble  that  place?  She  did  not 
know,  and  the  suggestion  struck  her  with  surprise. 

Michael  had  recognized  her  of  course,  she  saw  that, 
but  he  was  a  gentleman  and  intended  to  play  the  game. 
That  was  an  immense  relief.  She  could  allow  herself 
to  look  at  him  critically  now — not  with  just  the  cursory 
glance  she  had  bestowed  upon  Henry's  friend  at  first — 
for  he  had  turned  and  was  talking  to  Madame  Imogen 
whom  Sabine  had  signed  to  pour  out  the  tea — she  was 
not  sure  if  her  own  hand  might  not  have  shaken  a 
little  and  it  were  wiser  to  take  no  risks. 

He  was  horribly  good-looking — that  jumped  to  the 
eye — and  with  a  careless,  indifferent  grace — five  years 
had  only  matured  and  increased  his  attractions.  He 
had  "it" — manifesting  in  every  part  of  him  and  his 
atmosphere!  A  magnetism,  a  hateful,  odious  power 
which  she  felt,  and  fiercely  resented.  He  had  recovered 
completely  from  whatever  shock  he  had  felt  upon  see- 
ing her  it  would  seem !  for  his  face  looked  absolutely 
unconcerned  now  and  perfectly  at  ease. 

She  called  all  her  forces  together  and  played  the  part 
of  the  radiant,  well-mannered  hostess,  being  even  extra 

118 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

sweet  and  charming  to  Henry,  who  was  in  the  seventh 
heaven  in  consequence.  The  dreaded  introduction  of 
his  too-fascinating  friend  at  Heronac  had  passed  off 
well  and  his  adored  ladj  did  not  seem  to  be  taking  any 
notice  of  him. 

Michael  did  not  seek  by  word  or  look  to  engage  her 
in  personal  conversation ;  if  he  had  really  been  a 
stranger  who  did  not  even  find  his  hostess  fair,  he 
could  not  have  been  more  casual  or  less  impressed. 
And  all  the  while  his  pulses  were  bounding  and  he  was 
growing  more  and  more  filled  with  astonishment  and 
emotion. 

At  last  a  thought  came.  Why,  of  course!  Henry 
had  told  her  he  was  coming,  so  she  had  expected  the 
meeting  and  had  had  time  to  school  herself  to  act ! 
But  this  straw  was  not  long  vouchsafed  him,  and  then 
stupefaction  set  in,  for  Henry  chanced  to  say: 

"You  must  forgive  me  for  not  having  time  to  write 
you  my  friend's  name  in  my  postscript,  the  post  was 
off  that  minute — you  had  to  take  him  on  trust !" 

"I  do  not  know  that  I  even  caught  it  just  now!" 
Sabine  returned  archly.     "Mr. .'"' 

And  Henry,  engaged  for  a  moment  taking  a  second 
cup  of  tea  from  Madame  Imogen's  fat  hand,  Michael 
answered  for  him,  looking  straight  into  her  eyes : 

"Michael  Howard  Arranstoun  of  Arranstoun  over 
the  border  in  Scotland — like  Gretna  Green." 

"How     romantic    that    sounds,"     Madame     Imogen 

119 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

chimed  in.  "Why,  it's  a  name  fit  for  a  stage  play  I 
do  think.  A  party  of  my  friends  visited  that  very 
caytlc  only  last  fall.  Mrs.  Howard  dear,  it's  as  well 
known  as  the  Trossachs  to  investigators  of  the 
antique !" 

"Wonderfully  interesting!"  Sabine  remarked  bland- 
ly— putting  more  sugar  in  her  tea — at  which  Michael's 
e3'ebrows  raised  themselves  in  a  whimsical  way — back 
had  rushed  to  him  the  recollection  that  on  the  only  oc- 
casion they  had  ever  drunk  tea  together  before,  she 
had  said  that  she  liked  "lumps  and  lumps  of  it!" 

"You  probably  know  England  ?"  he  hazarded  politely. 

"Very  little.  I  was  once  there  for  a  month  when  I 
was  a  child ;  we  went  to  see  Windermere  and  the  Lakes." 

"You  got  no  further  north.?  That  was  a  pity,  our 
country  is  most  beautiful — ^but  it  is  not  too  late — you 
may  go  there  yet  some  day." 

"Who  knows .?"  and  she  laughed  gaily — she  had  to 
allow  herself  some  outlet,  she  felt  she  w^ould  otherwise 
have  screamed. 

Michael  looked  away  out  to  sea  and  he  told  himself 
he  must  not  tease  her  any  more.  She  was  astonish- 
ingly game — so  astonishingly  game  that  but  for  the 
name  "Howard"  he  could  have  almost  believed  that  this 
young  woman  was  his  Sabine's  double — but  he  remem- 
bered now  that  she  had  said  she  was  going  to  call  her- 
self Mrs.  Howard  because  otherwise  she  would  not  be 
able  to  "have  any  fun !" 

120 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

He  had  never  recollected  It  since,  not  even  when 
Henry  had  told  him  the  lady  of  his  heart  was  called 
Howard — obscured  by  his  friend's  assertion  that  her 
husband  was  an  American,  he  had  not  for  an  instant 
suspected  the  least  connection  with  himself. 

Until  he  could  find  out  the  meaning  of  all  this  com- 
edy, he  must  not  let  Henry  have  an  idea  that  there  was 
anything  underneath;  and  then  with  a  pang  of  morti- 
fication and  pain  he  remembered  his  promise  to  Henry 
— and  he  clenched  his  hands  in  his  coat  pockets,  he 
was  indeed  tied  and  bound. 

Sabine  for  her  part  felt  she  could  bear  the  situation 
no  longer;  she  must  be  alone — so  on  the  plea  of  letters 
to  write,  she  dismissed  them  with  Madame  Imogen  to 
show  them  to  their  rooms  in  the  other  part  of  the  house 
which  was  connected  to  this,  her  two  great  turrets  and 
middle  immense  room,  by  a  passage  which  went  along 
from  the  turret  which  contained  her  bedroom. 

"You  won't  mind,  perhaps,  dining  at  half  past 
seven?"  she  said  as  she  paused  at  her  door,  "because 
our  good  cure,  Pere  Anselme  is  coming,  and  he  hates 
to  sit  up  late." 

And  with  the  comer  of  his  eye,  Michael  saw  that 
before  he  hurried  after  him,  Henry  had  bent  and  sur- 
reptitiously kissed  his  hostess'  hand — and  a  sudden 
blinding,  unreasoning  rage  shook  him  as  he  stalked  on 
to  his  allotted  apartment. 


CHAPTER    X 

'ABINE  decided  to  be  a  little  late  for  dinner — 
three  minutes,  just  to  give  the  rest  of  the 
party  time  to  be  assembled  in  the  big  salon. 
She  was  coming  from  the  communicating  passage  to  her 
part  of  the  house  when  Mr.  Arranstoun  came  out  of 
his  room,  and  they  were  obliged  to  go  down  the  great 
staircase  together. 

To  see  him  suddendly  in  evening  dress  like  this 
brought  her  wedding  night  back  so  vividly  to  her,  she 
with  difficulty  kept  a  gasp  from  her  breath.  He  was 
certainly  the  most  splendidly  good-looking  creature, 
with  his  blue  eyes  and  dark  hair  and  much  fairer  little 
moustache. 

"I  am  late !"  she  cried  laughing,  before  he  could  speak 
a  word.  "Pere  Anselme  will  scold  me !  Come  along !" 
and  she  tripped  forward  with  a  glance  over  her  shoul- 
der. 

Michael's  eyes  blazed — she  was  a  truly  bewitching 
morsel  in  her  fresh  white  frock  with  its  bunch  of  crim- 
son sweet  peas  stuck  in  the  belt. 

122 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

"Your  flowers  should  be  stephanotis,"  he  said,  and 
that  was  all,  as  he  followed  her  down  the  stairs. 

"I  cannot  bear  them,"  she  retorted  and  shuddered  a 
Httle.  "I  only  care  for  out-door,  simple  things  like  my 
sweet  peas." 

He  did  not  speak  as  they  went  along  the  gallery — 
this  disconcerted  her — what  did  it  mean.?  She  had  been 
prepared  to  fence  with  him,  and  keep  him  in  his  place, 
she  was  ready  to  defend  herself  on  all  sides — and  no 
defence  seemed  necessary !  A  sudden  cold  feeling  came 
over  her  as  though  excitement  had  died  down  and  she 
opened  the  salon  door  quickly  and  advanced  into  the 
room. 

Michael  had  come  to  a  determination  while  dressing — 
Henry  had  walked  in  and  smoked  a  cigarette  with  him 
before  he  began,  and  had  then  showed  plainly  his  joy 
and  satisfaction.  She — his  worshiped  lady — had  never 
before  been  so  tender  and  gracious,  and  he  was  aw- 
fully happy  because  things  were  going  well.  And  what 
did  his  friend  Michael  think  of  his  choice.''  Was  she 
not  the  sweetest  woman  in  the  world? 

Michael  said  he  had  seen  better-looking  ones,  but  ad- 
mitted she  had  charm.  He  was  really  suffering,  the  sit- 
uation was  so  impossible  and  he  had  not  yet  made 
up  his  mind  what  he  ought  to  do — tell  Henry  straight 
out  that  Sabine  was  his  wife  or  what.?  If  he  did  that 
he  might  be  going  contrary  to  some  plan  of  hers — for 
she  evidently  had  no  intention  yet  of  informing  Lord 

123 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

Fordycc,  or  of  giving  the  least  indication  that  she  rec- 
ognized hiui — Michael.  It  was  the  most  grotesque  puz- 
zle and  contained  an  element  of  the  tragic,  too — for  one 
of  them. 

Henry's  happiness  and  contentment  touched  him — his 
dear  old  friend! — he  felt  extraordinarily  upset.  But 
when  Lord  Fordyce  had  gone  he  rapidly  reviewed  mat- 
ters and  made  up  his  mind.  At  all  events,  for  the  pres- 
ent, he  would  be  guided  by  what  Sabine's  attitude  should 
be  herself.  He  would  certainly  see  her  alone  on  the 
following  day  and  then  she  would  most  likely  broach  the 
subject  and  they  could  agree  what  to  do — for  that 
Henry  must  know  some  day  was  an  incontestable  fact. 
He,  Michael,  would  make  some  excuse  and  leave 
Hcronac  by  the  next  evening,  it  was  impossible  to  go  on 
playing  such  a  part,  and  not  fair  to  any  one,  least  of 
all  to  his  friend. 

"I  will  give  her  to-night  to  declare  her  hand,"  he 
thought,  as  his  valet,  no  longer  the  dignified  Johnson, 
handed  him  his  coat,  "and  tlien  if  she  will  not  put  the 
cards  down — I  must," 

But  when  he  opened  his  door  and  saw  her  exquisite 
slender  figure  tripping  forward  from  the  dark  passage, 
a  fierce  pain  gripped  his  heart,  and  he  said  between  his 
teeth : 

"My  God !  if  it  had  not  been  too  late !" 

The  Dame  d'Heronac  was  in  wild  spirits  at  din- 
ner— and     her     cheeks     burned     like     glowing     roses. 

124 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

Monsieur  le  Cure  watched  her  with  his  wise,  black 
eye. 

"The  child  is  not  herself,"  he  thought.  "It  is  pos- 
sible that  this  Englishman  may  mean  a  great  deal  to  her 
— but  he  is  of  the  gentle  type,  not  of  the  sort  one  would 
believe  to  make  strong  passions — no — now  if  it  had  been 
the  other  one — the  friend — that  one  could  have  seen 
some  light  through — a  young  man  well  able  to  fill  the 
heart  of  any  woman — a  fine  young  man,  a  splendid 
young  man — but  yes." 

Madame  Imogen  made  no  reflections,  she  was  too  de- 
lighted with  their  gay  repast,  and  helped  with  her  jolly 
wit  to  keep  the  ball  rolling. 

Henry  felt  slightly  intoxicated  with  happiness — while 
in  Michael,  passions  of  various  sorts  were  rising,  against 
his  will. 

A  devil  was  in  Sabine — never  had  she  been  so  allur- 
ing, so  feminine,  so  completely  removed  from  her  usual 
grave,  indifferent  self. 

She  did  not  look  at  Michael  once  or  vouchsafe  him 
any  conversation  beyond  what  cordial  politeness  com- 
pelled. It  was  to  Pere  Anselme  that  she  almost  made 
love,  with  shy  sallies  at  Henry,  and  merry  replies  to 
Madame  Imogen.  But  her  whole  atmosphere  was  radi- 
ating with  provoking  fascination — and  as  they  all  rose 
from  table  she  took  Lord  Fordyce's  arm. 

"In  England,  I  hear  you  men  remain  in  the  dining 
room  to  drink  all  sorts  of  ports — but  here  in  my  France 

125 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

wc  expect  you  to  be  sociable  and  come  with  us  at  once — 
you  may  smoke  where  you  choose." 

Henry  could  not  refrain  from  caressing  with  his  other 
hand  the  little  cold  one  lying  on  his  arm  as  they  walked 
along — while  he  whispered  with  passionate  devotion: 

"My  darling,  darling  girl !" 

"Hush !"  she  answered  nervously.  "Your  friend  will 
hear !» 

"And  if  he  does  !  what  matter,  dearest — ^he  knows  that 
I  love  you,  and  that  as  soon  as  you  are  free  you  are 
going  to  be  my  wife." 

There  must  have  been  a  slight  roughness  in  the  car- 
pet which  slid  upon  the  slippery  floor,  for  the  Dame 
d'Heronac  stumbled  a  little  and  then  gasped : 

"He— knows  that !" 

And  by  the  time  they  all  reached  the  salon,  her  rosy 
cheeks  were  pale,  while  the  pupils  of  her  violet  eyes 
were  so  large  as  to  make  them  appear  to  be  black  as 
night. 

The  gay  sprite  of  the  dinner-table  seemed  to  have 
taken  her  departure  and  a  dignified  and  serious  hostess 
filled  her  place.  A  hostess  who  discoursed  of  gardens, 
and  architecture,  and  such  subjects — and  at  ten  o'clock 
when  the  Pere  Anselme  gave  his  blessing  and  wished  the 
company  good-night,  also  gave  a  white  hand  to  her 
guests,  saying  that  Madame  Imogen  would  show  them 
the  small  salon  where  they  could  smoke  and  have  their 
drinks  before  retiring  to  their  rooms,  then  she  bowed  to 

126 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

them  and  walked  off  slowly  to  her  part  of  the  house. 

When  she  had  gone,  Michael  said  a  little  hoarsely  to 
Henry : 

"1  have  got  the  fiend  of  a  headache,  old  man.  I  think 
1  won't  smoke,  but  turn  in  at  once." 

An  hour  or  two  later,  when  the  whole  chateau  was 
wrapped  in  darkness — the  mistress  of  it  crept  from  her 
bed- room  to  the  great  sitting-room,  and  turning  on  the 
light,  she  unlocked  a  blue  despatch-box  which  stood  be- 
side her  writing-table.  From  this  she  took  a  letter, 
marked  a  little  with  former  perusals — and  she  read  it 
over  once  more  from  beginning  to  end. 

It  had 

Arranstoun   Castle, 
Scotland, 
stamped  upon  it  in  red  and  it  bore  a  date  in  June,  1907. 
It  had  no  beginning  and  thus  it  ran : 

Since  after  everything  I  wake  to  find  you  have 
chosen  to  leave  me  you  can  abide  by  your  decision. 
I  will  not  follow  you  or  ever  seek  to  bring  you 
back.  It  is  useless  to  ask  you  if  you  meant  that 
you  forgave  me — because  your  going  proves  that 
you  really  have  not — so  make  what  you  please 
of  your  life  as  I  shall  make  what  I  please  of 
mine. 

Michael    Arranstoun. 

WTien  she  put  the  paper  back  again,  glittering  tears 

gathered  and  rolled  in  shining  drops  down  her  cheeks. 

He  had  meant  that  last  paragraph  then,  and  he  meant 

127 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

it  now  evidently,  since  he  knew  that  she  was  pledged  to 
marry  Henry  when  she  should  be  free,  and  had  made  no 
protest.     Perliaps  he  was  glad  and  intended  to  marry 
Miss  Daisy  van  der  Horn !    Her  tears  dried  suddenly — 
and  her  cheeks  burned.     She  must  think  this  situation 
out,  and  not  just  drift.      It  was  plain  that   Michael 
had  been  astonished  to  the  point  of  stupefaction  on  see- 
ing her.     He  could  not  have  known  then  that  his  friend 
wished   to    marry    her — Sabine — only    that   his    friend 
wished  to  marry  the  lady  they  were  going  to  see.     But 
he  knew  it  afterwards,  he  knew  it  at  dinner — and  yet  he 
said  never  a  word.     What  could  it  mean.?     What  could 
be  best  to  do?     Perhaps  to  see  him  alone  in  the  morn- 
ing and  ask  him  to  grant  her  freedom  and  get  the  di- 
vorce as  quickly  as  possible.     She  could  count  upon  her- 
self not  to  betray  the  slightest  feeling  in  the  interview. 
If  only  that  strange  turn  of  fate  had  not  brought  Lord 
Fordyce  into  her  life,  what  glorious  pleasure  she  would 
now  take  in  trying  her  uttermost  to  fascinate  and  at- 
tract Michael — not  that  she  desired  him  for  herself! — 
only  to  punish  him  for  all  the  past !     But  she  was  not 
free.     She  had  given  her  word  to  Henry.     The  humili- 
ation of  feeling  that  Michael  was  making  no  protest, 
and  would  apparently  from  this  fact  agree  willingly  to 
divorce  her,  stung  her  pride  and  made  her  want  to  make 
him  suffer  and  regret  in  some  way.    If  she  could  believe 
that  it  was  paining  him,  she  would  be  glad —  and  if  it 
appeared  possible  to  keep  up  the  pretence  of  unrecogni- 


THE    IMAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

tion  for  longer  than  to-morrow,  she  would  certainly  do 
so ;  it  was  a  frantic  excitement  in  any  case,  and  she 
adored  difficult  games.  Then  as  she  put  the  letter  back 
in  her  despatch-box,  her  hand  touched  a  large  blue 
enamel  locket,  and  with  a  shiver  she  hastily  shut  down 
the  lid,  and  as  one  fleeing  from  a  ghost  she  ran  back  to 
bed. 

Michael  meanwhile  was  pacing  his  room  in  deep  and 
agitated  thought. 

How  supremely  attractive  she  was !  And  to  have  to 
give  her  up  to  Henry ;  it  was  too  frightfully  cruel.  But 
he  had  absolutely  no  right  to  stand  in  either  of  their 
lights.  He  had  not  even  the  right  to  undermine  his 
friend's  influence  by  deed  or  look,  since  he  had  given  him 
his  word  of  honor  that  he  would  not  do  so.  What  a 
blind  fool  he  had  been  all  those  years  ago  to  let  pas- 
sionate rage  at  Sabine's  daring  to  leave  him  make  him 
write  her  that  letter.  He  would  not  have  done  it  if  he 
had  not  felt  such  an  intolerable  brute — and  glad  to  cut 
the  whole  thing  by  accepting  Latimer  Berkeley's  sug- 
gestion to  join  him  for  the  China  expedition  at  once. 
The  Berkeley  letter  coming  that  next  morning  was  a 
stroke  of  fate.  If  he  had  had  a  day  to  think  about 
things,  he  would  have  followed  his  impulse  after  the 
anger  died  down,  and  gone  after  her  to  Mr.  Parsons' 
London  address,  but  he  had  already  wired  to  Latimer 
and  his  resentful  blood  was  up. 

He  remembered  how  he  had  not  allowed  himself  to 

129 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    INIOMENT 

think  of  her — but  had  concentrated  his  whole  mind  upon 
his  sport.  For  it  had  been  tremendous  sport  and  had 
interested  him  deeply,  that  journey  to  Tibet.  And  how- 
ever strong  feelings  may  be  at  moments — absence  and 
fresh  interests  dull  them.  To  banish  her  memory  be- 
came a  good  deal  easier  as  time  went  on,  and  even  the 
idea  to  divorce  her  if  she  wished  did  not  seem  too  hard. 

But  now  he  had  seen  her  again — and  every  spell  she 
had  cast  over  him  on  that  June  night  was  renewed  ten- 
fold. She  was  everything  he  could  desire — she  was 
beautiful  and  sweet  and  witty,  with  a  charm  which  only 
complete  independence  and  indifference  can  ever  give  a 
woman  in  the  eyes  of  such  a  man  as  he.  This  he  did 
not  reason  out — thinking  himself  a  very  ordinary  per- 
son— in  fact,  never  thinking  of  himself  at  all  or  what 
his  temperament  was  affected  by.  He  did  not  realize 
either  that  the  very  fact  of  Sabine's  being  now  out  of 
his  reach  made  her  appear  the  one  and  only  thing  he 
cared  to  possess.  He  knew  nothing  except  that  he  felt 
perfectly  mad  with  fate — mad  with  himself  for  making 
an  unconditional  promise  to  Henry,  perfectly  furious 
that  he  had  been  too  stupid  to  connect  the  name  of 
Howard  at  once  with  his  wife. 

And  here  he  was  sleeping  in  her  castle — not  she  sleep- 
ing in  his !  And  he  was  conforming  to  her  lead — not 
she  following  his.  And  the  only  thing  for  a  gentleman 
to  do  under  the  complicated  circumstances  was  to  speed- 
ily divorce  her  according  to  the  Scottish  law  and  let  her 

130 


THE    ]\IAN    AND    THE    INIOMENT 

marry  his  friend,  Henry  Fordyce — give  them  his  bless- 
ing and  lend  them  Arranstomi  for  the  honeymoon ! 

When  he  got  thus  far  in  his  meditatio  is,  he  simply 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  cursed  aloud. 

Never  in  his  whole  life  had  bolts  or  bars  or  circum- 
stances been  allowed  to  keep  him  from  his  will. 

And  then  it  did  come  to  his  shrewd  mind  that  these 
things  were  not  circumstances,  but  were  barriers  forged 
hy  himself. 

"If  I  had  not  been  such  an  awful  brute — and  the  mo- 
ment had  not  been — as  it  was — I  might  have  gradually 
made  her  love  me  and  kept  her  always  for  my  own !" 
his  thoughts  ran.  "Well — we  were  both  too  young  then 
— and  now  I  must  take  the  consequences  and  at  least 
not  be  a  swine  to  poor  old  Henry." 

With  superb  irony,  among  his  letters  next  morning 
which  he  had  wired  to  be  forwarded  to  Heronac,  there 
came  one  from  his  lawyer,  informing  him  that  he  had 
received  a  guarded  communication  from  his  wife's  rep- 
resentative, Mr.  Parsons — with  what  practically  amount- 
ed to  a  request  that  he,  Mr.  Arranstoun,  should  begin 
to  set  the  law  in  motion,  to  break  the  bond  between 
them — and  his  lawyer  inquired  what  his  wishes  were 
upon  the  subject  and  what  should  be  the  nature  of 
their  reply.'* 

To  get  this  at  Heronac — Sabine's  house!  He  shook 
with  fierce  laughter  in  his  bed. 

Then  his  temper  got  up,  and  he  came  to  a  fresh  de- 

131 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

termination.  He  would  break  her  pride — she  should 
kneel  if  she  wanted  her  freedom,  she  should  have  it  only 
if  she  asked  him  for  it  herself.  He  would  not  leave  that 
day  after  all !  He  would  stay  and  play  the  comedy  to 
its  end.  While  she  would  not  recognize  him,  he  would 
not  recognize  her.  It  was  she  who  had  set  the  pace 
and  the  responsibility  of  not  informing  Henry  lay  at 
her  door.  It  was  a  damnably  exciting  game — far  be- 
yond polo  or  even  slaying  long-haired  tigers  in  Man- 
churia— and  he  would  play  it  and  bluff  without  a  card 
in  his  hand. 

He  was  not  a  noble  hero,  you  see,  but  just  a  strong 
and  passionate  young  man — with  "it" ! 

The  day  Avas  so  gorgeous — Sabine  woke  with  some 
kind  of  joyousness.  She  was  only  twenty-two  years  old 
and  supremely  healthy;  and  however  complicated  fate 
seemed  to  be,  when  nerves  and  appetite  are  perfect  and 
the  sun  is  shining,  it  is  really  impossible  to  feel  too 
gloomy. 

Her  periwinkle  cambric  was  a  reflection  of  her  eyes, 
and  her  brown  hair  seemed  filled  with  rays  of  gold  as 
she  stepped  across  the  courtyard  at  about  ten  o'clock 
on  her  way  to  the  garden.  Her  guests  would  sleep  late 
— and  at  breakfast  at  twelve  would  be  time  enough  to 
see  them. 

But  Michael  caught  sight  of  the  top  of  a  wide  straw 
hat,  and  the  flutter  of  a  bluish  gown  from  his  window, 
and  did  not  hesitate  for  a  second.    Henry,  he  knew,  was 

132 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

only  in  his  bath,  while  he  himself  was  fully  dressed  in 
immaculate  white  flannels. 

It  did  not  take  him  five  minutes  to  gain  the  court- 
yard, or  to  saunter  over  the  causeway  bridge,  and  into 
the  garden — he  had  brought  the  English  papers  with 
him,  which  had  been  among  his  post.  He  would  pre- 
tend he  had  sought  solitude  and  would  be  duly  surprised 
and  pleased  to  encounter  his  hostess.  That  he  had  no 
business  in  her  private  garden  at  all  without  her  invita- 
tion did  not  trouble  him,  things  like  that  never  blocked 
his  way;  he  had  always  been  too  welcome  any- 
where for  such  an  aspect  even  to  have  presented  itself 
to  him. 

He  played  his  part  to  perfection — reconnoitering  as 
stealthily  as  when  he  was  stalking  big  game,  until  he 
perceived  his  quarry  at  the  far  end  among  the  lavender, 
giving  orders  to  a  gardener.  He  then  turned  in  the 
opposite  direction,  with  great  unconsciousness,  to  read 
the  paper  in  peace  apparently  being  his  only  care! 
Here  he  paced  the  walk  which  cut  off  her  retreat  from 
the  gate,  never  glancing  up.  Sabine  saw  him  of  course, 
and  her  heart  began  to  beat — was  it  possible  for  a  man 
to  be  so  good-looking  or  so  utterly  casual  and  devil- 
may-care!  If  she  walked  toward  the  arbor  turret  he 
would  be  obliged  to  see  her  when  she  came  to  the  end, 
and  then  must  come  up  and  say  good-morning.  She 
picked  up  her  flower-basket  and  went  that  way,  and  with 
due  surprise  and  pleasure,  Michael  looked  up  from  his 

133 


THE    INIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

paper  at  exactly  the  right  moment  and  caught  sight  of 

her. 

He  came  toward  her  with  just  the  proper  amount  of 
haste  and  raised  his  straw  hat  in  a  gay  good-morning. 

"Isn't  it  a  divine  day,"  he  said.  "I  had  to  come  out 
and  read  the  papers — and  the  courtyard  looked  so  dull 
and  I  did  not  know  where  else  to  go — it  is  luck  finding 
you  here !" 

"I  always  come  into  the  garden  in  the  morning  when 
it  is  fine — I  know  every  plant  and  they  are  all  my 
friends."  Then  to  hide  the  pleasurable  excitement  she 
was  feeling,  she  bent  down  and  picked  a  bit  of  lavender. 

"I  love  that  smell — won't  you  give  me  some,  too?" 
he  pleaded — and  she  handed  him  a  sprig  which  he  fixed 
in  his  white  coat.  "You  have  made  the  most  enchanting 
place  of  this,"  he  next  told  her.  "Can't  we  go  up  and 
sit  in  that  summer-house  while  you  tell  me  how  you 
began?  Henry  said  all  this  was  a  ruin  when  you 
bought  it  some  years  ago — it  is  extraordinarily  clever 
of  you." 

Not  the  slightest  embarrassment  was  In  his  manner, 
not  the  smallest  look  of  extra  meaning  in  his  eyes ;  he 
was  simply  a  guest  and  she  a  hostess,  out  together  in 
the  sunlight.  A  sense  of  unreality  stole  over  Sabine. 
It  could  not  be  all  true — it  was  just  some  dream — a 
little  more  vivid,  that  was  all,  than  those  which  used  to 
come  to  her  of  him  sometimes  during — that  year.  She 
almost  felt  that  she  would  like  to  put  out  her  hand  and 

134 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

touch  him  to  see  if  he  were  tangible  or  a  thing  of  il- 
lusion as  she  led  the  way  to  the  turret  summer-house. 

The  wall  wliich  protected  the  garden  from  the  sea 
was  very  high  and  this  little  tower  had  been  in  the 
original  fortifications  and  had  been  cleverly  adapted  to 
its  present  use.  It  was  open,  with  glass  which  slid  back 
on  the  southern  side,  and  its  great  windows  looked  out 
over  the  blue  waters  and  granite  rocks  on  the  other. 
The  little  bay  curved  round  so  that  from  there  you  got 
a  three-quarter  view  of  the  chateau. 

Sabine  put  her  basket  down,  and  climbing  up  the 
wooden  step  she  seated  herself  upon  the  high  window- 
seat,  her  feet  dangling  while  she  opened  the  casement 
wide.  Michael  stood  beside  her  leaning  upon  the  sill — 
so  that  she  was  slightly  above  him. 

"What  a  glorious  view !"  he  exclaimed ;  "it  is  cer- 
tainly a  perfect  spot.  Why,  it  has  everything!  The 
sea  and  its  waves  to  dash  up  at  it — and  then  this  lovely 
garden  for  shelter  and  peace.  What  a  fortunate  young 
woman  you  are!" 

"Yes,  am  I  not?" 

"I  have  an  old  castle,  too — perhaps  Henry  has  told 
you  about  it.  We  have  owned  it  ever  since  Adam,  I 
suppose!"  and  he  laughed.  "The  grim  part  of  this  is 
rather  like  it  in  a  way ;  I  mean  the  stone  passages  and 
huge  rooms — but  of  course  the  architecture  is  different. 
It  has  been  the  scene  of  every  sort  of  fight.  I  should 
like  to  show  it  to  you  some  day." 

135 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

Stupefaction  rose  in  Sabine's  mind.  After  all,  had 
slie  been  mistaken,  and  had  he  really  not  recognized 
her? — or  had  her  acting  of  the  night  before  convinced 
him  that  his  first  ideas  must  be  wrong  and  that  she  was 
really  not  his  wife!  Excitement  thrilled  her.  But  if 
he  was  playing  a  part,  she  then  must  certainly  play, 
too,  and  not  speak  to  him  about  the  divorce  until  he 
spoke  to  her.  Thus  they  were  unconsciously  the  one 
set  against  the  other  and  both  determined  that  the  other 
should  show  first  hand.  It  looked  as  though  the  in- 
terests of  Lord  Fordyce  might  be  somehow  forgotten! 

They  talked  thus  for  half  an  hour,  Michael  asking 
questions  about  Heronac  with  polite  interest  and  with- 
out ever  saying  a  sentence  with  a  double  meaning,  and 
she  replying  with  frank  information,  and  both  burning 
with  excitement  and  zest.  Then  her  great  charm  began 
to  affect  him  so  profoundly  that  unconsciously  some- 
thing of  eagerness  and  emotion  crept  into  his  voice.  It 
was  one  of  those  voices  full  of  extraordinarily  attractive 
cadences  at  any  time,  and  made  for  the  seducing  of  a 
woman's  ear.  Sabine  knew  that  she  was  enjoying  her- 
self with  a  wild  kind  of  forbidden  joy — ^but  she  did  not 
analyze  its  cause.  It  could  not  be  mean  to  Henry  just 
to  talk  about  Heronac  when  she  was  not  by  word  or 
look  deliberately  trying  to  fascinate  his  friend — she  was 
only  being  naturally  polite  and  casual. 

"Arranstoun  only  wants  the  sea,"  Michael  said  at 
last,  "and  then  it  would  be  as  perfect  as  this.     "I  have 

136 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

a  big,  old  sitting-room,  too,  that  was  once  part  of  a 
great  hall,  and  my  bedroom  is  the  other  half — a  suite 
all  to  myself — but  I  have  not  been  there  for  five  years 
— I  am  going  back  from  here." 

"How  strange  to  be  away  from  your  home  for  so 
long,"  Sabine  remarked  innocently.  "Where  have  you 
been  ?" 

Then  he  told  her  all  about  China  and  Tibet. 

"I  had  taken  some  kind  of  distaste  for  Arranstoun 
and  shirked  going  there — I  shall  have  to  face  it  now,  I 
suppose,  because  it  is  such  hard  luck  on  the  people 
when  an  owner  is  away,  and  so  one  must  come  up  to  the 
scratch." 

"Yes,"  she  agreed,  "one  must  always  do  that." 

"I  used  to  think  out  a  lot  of  things  when  I  was  in 
the  wilds — and  I  grew  to  know  that  one  is  a  great  fool 
when  young — and  a  great  brute." 

She  began  to  pull  her  lavender  to  pieces — ^this  con- 
versation was  growing  too  dangerously  fascinating  and 
must  be  stopped  at  once. 

"It  is  getting  nearly  breakfast-time,"  she  said  gaily, 
"and  I  just  want  to  pick  a  big  bunch  of  sweet  peas  be- 
fore the  sun  gets  on  them,  won't  you  help  me.'' — and 
then  we  will  go  in." 

She  slid  to  the  floor  before  he  could  put  out  a  hand 
to  assist  her,  and  with  her  swift,  graceful  movements 
led  the  way  to  the  tall  sticks  where  the  last  of  the  sum- 
mer sweet  peas  grew. 

137 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

Here  she  handed  him  the  basket  and  told  him  to  work 
hard — and  all  the  while  she  chattered  of  the  ways  of 
these  flowers,  and  the  trouble  she  had  had  to  make  them 
grow  there,  and  would  not  once  let  tlie  conversation 
upon  this  subject  flag. 

"Some  day  when  I  live  in  England,  I  suppose  I  can 
have  a  lovely  garden  there — it  is  famous  for  gardens, 
isn't  it?  I  take  in  Country  Life  and  try  to  learn  from 
it." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  and  grew  stiff.  The  sudden 
picture  of  her  living  in  England — with  Henry — came 
to  him  as  an  ugly  shock. 

"Before  you  settle  down  in  England,  I  would  like 
you  to  see  Arranstoun, — please  promise  me  to  come 
and  stay  there  before  you  do?  I  will  have  a  party 
whenever  you  like.  I  would  love  to  show  it  to  you — 
every  part  of  it — especially  the  chapel — it  is  full  of 
wonderful  things !" 

If  she  chose  to  give  him  reminders  of  aspects  which 
hurt,  he  would  do  the  same ! 

"It  sounds  most  interesting,"  she  agreed,  but  had  not 
the  courage  to  make  any  remarks  about  the  chapel  or 
ask  what  it  contained. 

The  clock  over  the  gateway  struck  twelve — and  she 
laughingly  started  to  walk  very  fast  toward  the  house. 

"Madame  Imogen  and  Lord  Fordyce  will  be  ravenous 
— come,  let  us  go  quickly — I  can  even  run !" 

So  they  strode  on  together  with  the  radiant  faces  of 

138 


THE    :\IAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

those  exalted  by  an  exciting  game,  on  the  way  passing 
Pere  Anselme. 

And  in  the  cool  tapestried  antechamber  of  the  salle- 
a-manger,  they  found  Henry  looking  from  the  window 
a  little  wistfully,  and  a  pang  of  self-reproach  struck 
both  their  hearts. 


CHAPTER  XI 

LL  through  breakfast,  Sabine  devoted  herself 
sedulously  to  Lord  Fordyce — and  this  pro- 
duced two  results.  It  sent  Henry  into  a  sev- 
enth heaven  and  caused  IMichael  to  bum  with  jealous 
rage.  Primitive  instincts  were  a  good  deal  taking  pos- 
session of  him — and  he  found  it  extremely  difficult  to 
keep  up  his  role  of  disinterested  friend.  It  must  be  ad- 
mitted he  was  in  really  a  very  difficult  position  for  any 
man,  and  it  is  not  very  easy  to  decide  what  he  ought 
to  have  done  short  of  telling  Henry  the  truth  at  once — 
but  this  he  found  grew  every  moment  more  hard  to  do. 
It  would  mean  that  he  would  have  to  leave  Heronac  im- 
mediately. In  any  case,  he  must  do  this  directly.  Sa- 
bine admitted,  even  to  him,  that  she  was  his  wife.  They 
could  not  together  agree  to  leave  Henry  in  ignorance, 
that  would  be  deliberately  deceiving,  and  would  make 
them  both  feel  too  mean.  But  while  nothing  was  even 
tacitly  confessed,  there  seemed  some  straw  for  his  honor 
to  grasp;  he  clutched  at  it  knowing  its  flimsy  nature. 
He  had  given  himself  until  the  next  day  and  now  re- 
fused to  look  beyond  that.     Every  moment  Sabine  was 

140 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MO:\IENT 

attracting  him  more  deeply — and  bringing  certain 
memories  more  vividly  before  him  with  maddening  tan- 
talization. 

But  did  she  love  Henry?  Of  that  he  could  not  be 
sure.  If  she  did,  he  certainly  must  divorce  her  at  once. 
If  she  did  not — why  was  she  wishing  to  marry  him? 
Henry  was  an  awfully  good  fellow,  far  better  than  he — 
but  after  all,  she  was  his  wife — even  though  he  had  for- 
feited all  right  to  call  her  so,  and  if  she  did  not  love 
Henry,  no  friendship  toward  him  ought  to  be  allowed  to 
stand  in  the  way  of  their  reunion.  It  is  astonishing  how 
civilization  controls  nature!  If  we  put  as  much  force 
into  the  controlling  of  our  own  thoughts  as  we  put  into 
acting  up  to  a  standard  of  public  behavior,  what  won- 
derful creatures  we  should  become ! 

Here  were  these  two  human  beings — young  and 
strong  and  full  of  passion,  playing  each  a  part  with 
an  art  as  great  as  any  displayed  at  the  Comedie  Fran- 
9aise !  And  all  for  reasons  suggested  by  civilization ! — 
when  nature  would  have  solved  the  difficulty  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye ! 

Michael  spent  a  breakfast  hour  in  purgatory.  It 
was  plain  to  be  seen  that  Henry  expected  him  to  show 
some  desire  to  go  fishing,  or  to  want  some  other  sport 
which  required  solitude,  or  only  the  company  of  Madame 
Imogen — and  his  afternoon  looked  as  if  it  were  not  go- 
ing to  be  a  thing  of  joy.  The  result  of  civilization  then 
made  him  say: 


THE  A;AN  and  the  MOMENT 

"jNIay  I  take  out  that  boat  I  saw  in  the  little  harbor 
after  breakfast,  INIrs.  Howard?  I  must  have  some  real 
exercise.     Two  days  in  a  motor  is  too  much." 

And  his  hostess  graciously  accorded  him  a  permis- 
sion, while  her  heart  sank — at  least  she  experienced 
that  unpleasant  physical  sensation  of  heaviness  some- 
where in  the  diaphragm  which  poets  have  christened 
heart-sinking!  She  knew  it  was  quite  the  right  thing 
for  him  to  have  done, — and  yet  she  wished  fervently  that 
they  could  have  spent  another  hour  like  the  one  in  the 
turret  summer-house. 

Henry  was  radiant — and  as  Michael  went  off  through 
the  postern  and  down  to  the  little  harbor  where  the  boats 
lay,  he  asked  in  fine  language  what  were  his  beloved's 
wishes  for  the  afternoon.'' 

Sabine  felt  pettish,  she  wanted  to  snap  out  that  she 
did  not  care  a  single  sou  what  they  did,  but  she  con- 
trolled herself  and  answered  sweetly  that  she  would  take 
him  all  over  the  cliateau  and  ask  his  opinion  and  advice 
about  some  further  improvements  she  meant  to  make. 

They  strolled  first  to  the  crenellated  wall  of  the  court- 
yard along  which  there  was  a  high  walk  from  which 
you  looked  down  upon  the  boat-house  and  the  little 
jetty — ^this  wall  made  the  fourth  side  of  the  courtyard, 
and  with  the  gate  tower,  and  the  concierge's  tower 
across  the  causeway,  and  part  of  the  garden  elevation, 
was  the  very  oldest  of  the  whole  chateau,  and  dated  from 
early  feudal  times. 

142 


THE    :\1AN    AND    THE    IMOMENT 

They  leaned  upon  the  stone  and  looked  down  at  the 
sea. 

"There  are  only  a  very  few  da^-s  in  the  year  that 
Minne-ha-ha  ever  comes  out  of  her  shed,"  Sabine  told 
him,  pointing  to  the  boat-house.  "You  cannot  imagine 
what  the  wind  is  here — even  now  it  may  get  up  in  a  few 
moments  on  this  glassy  sea,  or  thunder  may  come — 
and  in  the  autumn  the  storms  are  too  glorious.  I  sit 
at  one  of  the  big  windows  in  my  sitting-room  and  watch 
the  waves  for  hours ;  they  break  on  the  rocks  which 
stretch  out  from  the  tower,  which  is  my  bedroom  on  the 
Finisterre  side,  and  they  rise  mountain-high ;  it  is  a  most 
splendid  sight.  We  are,  as  it  were,  in  the  midst  of  a  caul- 
dron of  boiling  foam.  It  exalts  and  vitalizes  me  more 
than  I  can  tell  you.    I  wish  it  had  been  the  autumn  now." 

"I  don't,"  he  said.  "I  much  prefer  the  summer  and 
peace.  I  want  to  take  away  all  that  desire  for  fierce 
things,  dearest — they  were  the  echoes  of  those  dark 
thoughts  and  shadows  which  used  to  be  in  your  eyes  at 
Carlsbad." 

"Ah,  if  you  could !"  she  sighed. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  seen  her  moved — and 
it  distressed  him. 

"Do  you  not  think  that  I  can,  then?"  he  asked,  ten- 
derly. "It  is  the  only  thing  I  really  want  in  life — to 
make  you  happy." 

"How  good  you  are,  Henry!"  she  cried;  "so  noble 
and  unselfish  and  true;  you  frighten  me.     I  am  just  a 

148 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

creature  of  earth — full  of  things  you  may  not  like 
when  you  know  me  better.  I  am  sure  I  tliink  of  my- 
self more  than  any  one  else — you  make  me — ashamed." 
He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it,  while  his  fine  gray 
eyes  melted  in  worship. 

"I  will  not  even  listen  when  you  say  such  things — 
for  me  you  are  perfect — a  pearl  of  great  price." 

"I  must  try  to  be,  but  I  am  not,"  and  her  voice  trem- 
bled a  little.  "I  believe  I  am  as  full  of  faults  and  life 
as  your  friend  there — Mr.  Arranstoun,  who  I  am  sure 
is  just  a  selfish,  reckless  man!" 

Michael  at  this  moment  reached  the  boat-house  with 
old  Berthe's  son,  who  began  to  help  him  to  untie  the 
one  he  wanted.  He  looked  the  most  splendid  creature 
there  in  his  white  flannels — and  he  turned  and  waved  to 
them  and  then  got  in  and  pulled  out  a  few  yards  with 
long,  easy  strokes. 

"Michael  is  a  character,"  his  friend  said.  "He  has 
been  spoilt  all  his  life  by  women — and  fortune.  He  has 
a  most  strange  story.  He  married  a  girl  about  five 
years  ago  just  to  make  himself  safe  from  another  wom- 
an whom  he  had  been  making  love  to.  I  was  awfully 
angry  with  him  at  the  time — I  was  staying  in  the  house 
and  I  refused  to  wait  for  the  wedding.  I  thought  it 
such  a  shame  to  the  girl,  although  it  was  merely  an 
empty  ceremony — ^but  she  was  awfully  young,  I  believe." 
"How  interesting !"  and  Sabine's  voice  was  strained. 
"You  saw  the  girl — ^what  was  she  like  ?^^ 

144< 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

"No,  I  never  saw  her — it  was  all  settled  one  after- 
noon when  I  was  out — and  I  thought  it  such  a  thunder- 
ing shame  that  I  left  that  same  night." 

"And  if  you  had  stayed — you  would  have  met  her — 
how  curious  fate  is  sometimes — isn't  it?  Perhaps  you 
could  have  prevented  your  friend  being  so  foolish — if 
you  had  staged." 

"No,  nothing  in  the  world  would  ever  prevent  Michael 
from  doing  what  he  wanted  to — it  is  in  the  blood  of  all 
those  old  border  families — heredity  again — they  flour- 
ished by  imposing  their  wills  recklessly  and  snatching 
and  fighting,  and  who  ever  survived  was  a  strong  man. 
It  has  come  down  to  them  in  force  and  vigor  and  dar- 
ing unto  this  day." 

"But  what  happened  about  the  marriage?"  Sabine 
asked.  "It  interests  me  so  much ;  it  sounds  so  romantic 
at  this  matter-of-fact  time." 

"Nothing  happened,  except  that  they  went  through 
the  ceremony  and  the  girl  left  at  once  that  same  night, 
I  believe,  and  Michael  has  never  seen  or  heard  of  her 
since — he  tells  me  the  time  is  up  now  when  he  can  di- 
vorce her  for  desertion,  according  to  Scotch  law — and 
I  fancy  he  will.  It  is  a  ridiculous  position  for  them 
both.  He  does  not  even  know  if  she  has  not  preferred 
some  one  else  by  now." 

"Surely  she  would  have  given  some  sign  if  she  had — 
but  perhaps  he  does  not  care." 

"Not  much.     I  fancy  he  amused  himself  a  good  deal 

145 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

at  Ostendc — "  and  Henry  smiled.  "He  has  been  away 
in  the  wilds  for  five  years  and  naturally  has  come  back 
full  of  zest  for  civilization." 

Sabine's  full  lips  curled,  and  she  looked  at  the  sea 
again,  and  the  figure  in  the  boat  rapidly  pulling  away 
from  the  shore. 

"If  he  chose  to  leave  her  alone  all  these  years,  he 
could  not  expect  anything  else,  could  he,  than  that  she 
would  have  grown  to  care  for  another  man." 

"No,  that  is  what  I  told  him — and  he  said  he  was  a 
dog  in  the  manger." 

"He  did  not  want  her  himself,  and  yet  did  not  wish 
to  give  her  to  any  one  else — how  disgustingly  selfish!" 

"Men  are  proverbially  selfish,"  and  Henry  smiled 
again ;  "it  is  the  nature  of  the  creatures." 

The  violet  eyes  were  glowing  as  stars  might  glow 
could  they  be  angry — and  their  owner  turned  away 
from  the  sea  with  a  fine  shrug  of  her  shoulders — her 
thoughts  were  raging.  So  that  is  how  Michael  looked 
upon  the  affaire!  He  was  just  the  dog  in  the  manger, 
and  she  was  the  hay !  But  never,  never  would  she  sub- 
mit to  that !  She  would  speak  to  him  when  he  came  in 
and  ask  him  to  divorce  her  at  once.  Why  should  Henry 
ever  know? — even  if  Scotch  divorces  were  reported  she 
would  appear,  not  as  Mrs.  Howard,  but  as  Mrs.  Ar- 
ranstoun, — then  a  discouraging  thought  came — only 
Sabine  was  such  an  uncommon  name — if  it  were  not  for 
that  he  might  never  guess.     But  whether  Henry  ever 

146 


THE    MAX    AND    THE    MOMENT 

knew  or  did  not  know,  the  sooner  she  were  free  the 
better,  and  then  she  would  marry  him  and  adorn  his 
great  position  in  the  world — and  ^Michael  would  see  her 
there,  and  how  well  she  fulfilled  her  duties — so  even  yet 
she  would  be  able  to  punish  him  as  he  deserved !  Ha}^ ! 
Indeed !     Never,  never,  never ! 

Then  she  knew  she  must  have  been  answering  at  ran- 
dom some  of  Lord  Fordyce's  remarks,  for  a  rather  puz- 
zled look  was  on  his  face. 

A  strong  revulsion  of  feeling  came  to  her.  Henry 
suddenly  appeared  in  his  best  guise — and  a  wave  of 
tenderness  for  him  swept  over  her.  How  kind  and  cour- 
teous and  devoted  he  was — treating  her  always  as  his 
queen.  She  could  be  sure  of  homage  here — and  that  far 
from  being  hay;  she  would  be  the  most  valued  jewel  in 
his  crown  of  success.  She  would  rise  into  spheres  where 
she  would  be  above  the  paltry  emotions  caused  by  a 
hateful  man  just  because  he  had  "it" ! 

So  she  gave  her  hand  to  Henry  in  a  burst  of  exu- 
berance and  let  him  place  it  in  his  arm,  and  then  lead 
her  back  into  the  chateau  and  through  all  the  rooms, 
where  they  discussed  blues  and  greens  and  stuffs  and 
furniture  and  the  lowering  of  this  doonvay  and  the 
heightening  of  that,  and  at  last  they  drifted  to  the 
garden  and  to  the  lavender  hedge — but  she  would  not 
take  him  into  the  summer-house  or  again  look  out  on 
the  sea. 

All  through  her  sweetness  there  was  a  note  of  un- 

147 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

rest — and  Henry's  fine  senses  told  him  so — and  this  left 
the  one  drop  of  bitterness  in  his  otherwise  blissful  cup. 

Michael  meanwhile  was  expending  his  energy  and  his 
passion  in  swift  movement  in  the  boat — ^but  after  a  while 
he  rested  on  his  oars  and  then  he  began  to  think. 

There  was  no  use  in  going  on  with  the  game  after  all 
— he  ought  to  go  away  at  once.  If  he  stayed  and  saw 
her  any  more  he  would  not  be  able  to  leave  her  at  all. 
He  knew  he  would  only  break  his  promise  to  Henry — 
tell  Sabine  that  he  had  fallen  madly  in  love  with  her — 
implore  her  again  to  forgive  him  for  everything  in  the 
past  and  let  them  begin  afresh.  But  he  was  faced  with 
the  horrible  thought  of  the  anguish  to  Henry — Henry, 
his  old  friend,  who  trusted  him  and  who  was  ten  times 
more  worthy  of  this  dear  woman  than  he  was  himself. 

He  had  never  been  so  full  of  impotency  and  misery 
in  his  life — not  even  on  that  morning  in  June  when  he 
woke  and  found  Sabine  had  left  him — defied  him  and 
gone — after  everything.  Pure  rage  had  come  to  his 
aid  then — but  now  he  had  only  remorse  and  longing — 
and  anger  with  fate. 

"It  must  all  depend  upon  whether  or  no  she  loves 
Henry,"  he  said  to  himself  at  last — "and  this  I  will  make 
her  tell  me  this  very  afternoon." 

But  when  he  got  back  and  went  into  the  garden  he 
happened  to  witness  a  scene. 

Sabine — overcome  by  Lord  Fordyce's  goodness,  had 
let  him  hold  her  arm  while  her  head  was  perilously  near 

148 


THE    ]V1AN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

to  his  shoulder.  It  all  looked  very  Intimate  and  lover- 
like when  seen  from  afar.  The  greatest  pain  Michael 
Arranstoun  had  ever  experienced  came  into  his  heart, 
and  without  waiting  a  second  he  turned  on  his  heel  and 
went  back  to  the  house.  Here  he  had  a  bath  and 
changed  his  clothes,  while  his  servant  packed,  and  then, 
with  the  help  of  Madame  Imogen,  he  looked  up  a  train. 
Yes,  there  was  a  fast  one  which  went  to  Paris  from 
their  nearest  little  town — he  could  just  catch  it  by  or- 
dering Henry's  motor — this  he  promptly  did — and  leav- 
ing the  best  excuses  he  could  invent  with  Madame  Imo- 
gen, he  got  in  and  departed  a  few  minutes  before  his 
hostess  and  Lord  Fordyce  came  back  to  tea  at  five. 

He  had  written  a  short  note  to  Sabine — which 
Nicholas  handed  to  her. 

She  opened  it  with  trembling  fingers ;  this  was  all  it 

was : 

I  understand — and  I  will  get  the  divorce  as  soon 
as  the  law  will  allow,  and  I  will  try  to  arrange 
that  Henry  need  never  know.  I  would  like  you 
just  to  have  come  to  Arranstoun  once  more — per- 
haps I  can  persuade  Henry  to  bring  you  there  in 
the  autumn. 

Michael  Arranstoun. 

It  was  as  well  that  Lord  Fordyce  had  gone  up  to  his 
room — for  the  lady  of  Heronac  grew  white  as  death  for 
a  moment,  and  then  crumpling  the  note  in  her  hand  she 
staggered  up  the  old  stone  stairs  to  her  great  sitting- 
room. 

149 


THE    ]\IAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

So  he  had  gone  then — and  they  could  have  no  ex- 
planation. But  he  had  come  out  of  the  manger — and 
was  going  to  let  the  other  animal  eat  the  hay. 

This,  however,  was  very  poor  comfort  and  brought 
no  consolation  on  its  wings.  Civilization  again  won 
the  game. 

For  she  had  to  listen  unconcernedly  to  Madame  Imo- 
gen's voluble  description  of  Michael's  leaving — press- 
ins;  business  which  he  had  mistaken  the  date  about — 
finally  she  had  to  pour  out  tea  and  smile  happily  at 
Henry  and  Pere  Anselme. 

But  when  she  was  at  last  alone,  she  flung  herself 
down  by  the  window  seat  and  shook  all  over  with  sobs. 

Michael's  note  to  Henry  was  characteristic: 


I'm  bored,  my  dear  Henry — the  picture  of  your 
bliss  is  not  inspiriting — so  I  am  off  to  Paris  and 
thence  home.  I  hope  you'll  think  I  behaved  all 
right  and  played  the  game. 

Took  your  motor  to  catch  train. 

Yrs., 

M.  A. 


CHAPTER    Xn 

*^i^^-^  HE   Pere   Anselme   was    uneasy.      Very   little 
■  J    escaped  his   observation,   and  he  saw   at  tea 

^^i^^  that  his  much  loved  Dame  d'Heronac  was  not 
herself.  She  had  not  been  herself  the  night  before  at 
dinner  either— there  was  more  in  the  coming  of  these 
two  Englishmen  than  met  the  eye.  He  had  seen  her 
with  Michael  in  the  morning  in  the  summer-house  from 
a  corner  of  the  garden,  too,  where  he  was  having  a 
heated  argument  with  the  gardener  in  chief,  as  well  as 
when  he  met  them  on  the  causeway  bridge.  He  felt  it 
his  duty  to  do  something  to  smooth  matters,  but  what 
he  could  not  decide.  Perhaps  she  would  tell  him  about 
it  on  the  morrow,  when  he  met  her  as  was  his  custom 
on  days  that  were  not  saints'  days  interfered  with  by 
mass. 

"I  shall  be  at  the  gate  at  nine  o'clock,  ma  file"  he 
said,  when  he  wished  her  good-day.  "With  your  per- 
mission, we  must  decide  about  the  clematis  trellis  for 
the  north  wall  without  delay." 

Henry  accompanied  the  old  man  on  his  walk  back 
to  the  village — and  they  conversed  in  cultivated   and 

151 


THE    ]\1AN    AND    THE    IMOMENT 

stilted  French  of  philosophy  and  of  Breton  fisher-folk, 
and  of  the  strange,  melancholy  type  they  seemed  to 
have. 

"They  look  ever  out  to  sea,"  the  priest  said;  "they 
are  watching  the  deep  waters  and  are  conscious  forever 
of  their  own  and  loved  ones'  dangers — they  are  de 
braves  gens.'* 

"It  seems  so  wonderful  that  anything  so  young  and 
full  of  life  as  Mrs.  Howard  should  have  been  drawn  to 
live  in  such  an  isolated  place,  does  it  not,  mon  pere?" 
Henry  asked.     "It  seems  incongruous." 

"When  she  came  first  she  was  very  sad.  She  had 
cause  for  much  sorrow,  the  dear  child — and  the  sea  was 
her  mate ;  together  she  and  I,  with  the  sea,  have  studied 
many  things.  She  deserves  happiness.  Monsieur,  her 
soul  is  as  pure  and  as  generous  as  an  angel's — if  Mon- 
sieur knew  what  she  does  for  my  poor  people  and  for 
all  who  come  under  her  care !" 

"It  will  be  the  endeavor  of  my  life  to  make  her 
happy,  Father,"  and  Lord  Fordyce's  voice  was  full  of 
feeling. 

"Happiness  can  only  be  secured  in  two  ways,  my  son. 
Either  it  comes  in  the  guise  of  peace,  after  the  flames 
have  burnt  themselves  out — or  it  comes  through  fusion 
of  love  at  fever  heat " 

"Yes?"  Henry  faltered,  rather  anxiously. 

"When  there  are  still  some  cinders  alight — the 
peaceful    happiness    is    not    quite    certain     of    fulfil- 

152 


THE    ]MAN    AND    THE    ]\IOMENT 

ment;     it    becomes     an    experiment    then    with    some 
risks." 

"What  makes  you  say  this  to  me?" 

The  old  priest  did  not  look  at  him,  but  continued  to 
gaze  ahead. 

"I  have  the  welfare  of  our  Dame  d'Heronac  very 
strongly  at  heart,  Monsieur,  as  you  can  guess,  and  I 
am  not  altogether  sure  that  the  cinders  are  not  still  red. 
It  would  be  well  for  you  to  ascertain  whether  this  be 
so  or  not  before  you  ask  her  to  make  fresh  bonds." 

"You  think  she  still  cares  for  her  husband,  then.?" 
Henry  was  very  pale. 

"I  do  not  know  that  she  ever  cared — but  I  do  know 
that  even  his  memory  has  power  to  disturb  her.  He 
must  have  been  just  such  another  as  your  friend,  the 
Seigneur  of  Arranstoun.  It  is  his  presence  which  has 
reminded  her  of  sometliing  of  the  past,  since  it  cannot 
be  he  himself." 

"No,  of  course  it  cannot  be  Michael — "  and  Henry 
laughed  shortly.  "He  is  an  Englishman.  She  had 
never  seen  him  before  yesterday —  You  tliink  she  seems 
disturbed.?" 

"Yes." 

"What  would  you  have  me  do,  then.  Father.?  I  love 
this  woman  more  than  my  life  and  only  desire  her  hap- 
piness." 

The  Cure  of  Ileronac  slu'uggcd  his  high  shoulders 
slightly. 

153 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    IVIOMENT 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  give  advice  to  a  man  of  the  world 
— but  had  it  been  in  the  days  when  I  was  Gaston 
d'Heronac,  of  the  Imperial  Guard,  I  should  have  told 
you —  Use  your  intelligence,  search,  investigate  for 
yourself.  Make  her  love  you — leave  nothing  vague  or 
to  chance.  As  a  priest,  I  must  say  that  I  find  all  di- 
vorces wrong — and  that  for  me  she  should  remain  the 
wife  of  the  other  man." 

"Even  when  the  man  is  a  drunkard  or  a  lunatic,  and 
there  have  been  no  children?"  Henry  demanded. 

A  strange  look  came  in  the  old  Cure's  eye  as  he 
glanced  at  his  companion  covertly,  and  for  a  second 
it  seemed  as  though  he  meant  to  speak  his  thought — 
but  the  only  words  which  came  were  in  Latin : 

"Those  whom  God  hath  joined  together  let  no  man 
put  asunder,"  and  then  he  held  out  his  thin,  brown 
hand;  they  had  reached  his  door. 

"In  all  cases  you  have  my  good  wishes,  my  son,  for 
you  seem  worthy  of  her — my  good  wishes  and  my 
prayers." 

Lord  Fordyce  mounted  the  stairs  to  his  lady's  sit- 
ting-room with  lagging  steps.  The  Pere  Anselme's  ad- 
vice had  caused  him  to  think  deeply,  and  it  was  neces- 
sary that  he  had  speech  with  Sabine,  if  she  would  let 
him  come  back  into  her  sitting-room.  He  knocked  at 
the  door  softly,  as  was  his  way,  and  when  her  voice 
said  ^^Entrez"  rather  impatiently  he  did  enter  and  ad- 
vance with  diffidence.     She  was  sitting  with  her  back  to 

154 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOIMENT 

the  light  in  one  of  the  great  window  embrasures,  so 
that  he  could  not  see  the  expression  upon  her  face — ■ 
and  her  tone  became  gentle  as  she  welcomed  him. 

'•The  evening  is  so  glorious,  come  and  watch  the  sun- 
set ;  but  there  is  a  little  look  of  thunder  there  in  the  far 
west — to-morrow  we  may  have  a  storm." 

Henry  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  orange  velvet  seat 
— and  his  eyes,  full  of  love  and  tenderness,  sought  her 
face  beseechingly. 

"I  shall  simply  hate  going  the  day  after  to-morrow, 
dearest,"  he  said.  "If  it  were  not  for  the  sternest 
duty  to  my  mother,  I  would  ask  you  to  keep  me  until 
Friday — it  will  be  such  pain  to  tear  myself  away." 

"Ycu  have  been  dear,"  she  answered  very  low.  "You 
have  shown  me  what  real  love  in  a  man  means — what 
tenderness  and  courtesy  can  make  of  life.  Henry — 
however  wayward  I  may  be,  you  will  bear  with  me,  will 
you  not?  I  want  to  be  good  and  happy — "  Her  sweet 
voice,  with  its  faintly  French  accent,  was  full  of  pathos 
as  a  child's  might  be  who  is  asking  for  comfort  and 
sympathy  for  some  threatened  hurt.  "Oh!  I  want  to 
be  in  the  sure  shelter  of  your  love  always,  so  that  storms 
like  that  one  coming  up  over  there  cannot  touch  me. 
I  want  you  to  make  me  forget — everything." 

He  was  so  deeply  moved,  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes — 
as  he  bent  and  kissed  her  hands  with  reverence. 

"My  darling — you  shall  indeed  be  worshipped  and 
protected  and  kept  from  all  clouds — only  first  tell  me, 

155 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

Sabine,  straight  from  your  licart,  do  you  really  and 
truly  desire  to  marry  me?  I  do  not  ask  you  to  tell  me 
that  you  love  me  yet,  because  I  know  that  you  do  not — 
but  I  want  to  know  the  truth.  If  you  have  a  single 
doubt  whether  it  is  for  your  happiness,  tell  it  to  me — 
let  there  be  no  uncertainties  between  us — my  dear 
love " 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  while  his  tenderness 
seemed  to  be  pouring  balm  upon  her  troubled  spirit. 

"My  God !"  he  cried,  fearing  her  silence.  "Sabine, 
speak  to  me — I  will  not  hold  you  for  a  second  if  you 
would  rather  be  free — if  you  think  I  cannot  chase  all 
sad  memories  away." 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  his  arm. 

"If  you  will  be  content  to  take  me,  knowing  that  I 
have  things  to  forget — and  if  you  will  help  me  to  for- 
get them,  then  I  know  that  I  want  to  marry  you,  Henry 
— just  as  to-night  perhaps  that  little  sail  we  see  out 
there  will  long  to  get  in  to  a  safe  port." 

He  gave  her  his  promise — with  passionately  loving 
words,  that  he  would  protect  and  adore  her  always,  and 
soothe  and  cherish  her  until  all  haunting  memories  were 
gone. 

And  for  the  first  time  since  they  had  known  one  an- 
other, Sabine  let  him  fold  her  in  his  arms. 

But  the  lips  which  he  pressed  so  fondly  were  cold, 
like  death — and  afterwards  she  went  quickly  to  her 
room. 

156 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

The  die  was  irrevocably  cast — she  could  never  go 
back  now;  she  was  as  firmly  bound  to  Henry  as  if  she 
had  been  already  his  wife. 

For  her  nature  was  tender  and  honest  and  true — and 
Lord  Fordyce  had  touched  the  highest  chord  in  it,  the 
chord  of  her  soul. 

But,  as  she  stood  looking  from  the  narrow,  deep  case- 
ment up  at  the  evening  sky,  suddenly,  with  terrible 
vividness,  there  came  back  to  her  mental  vision  the 
chapel  at  Arranstoun  upon  her  wedding  night,  with  its 
gorgeous  splendors  and  the  candles  and  the  lilies  and 
their  strong  scent,  and  it  was  as  if  she  could  feel 
Michael's  kiss  when  the  old  clergyman's  words  were 
done. 

She  started  forward  with  a  little  moan,  and  put  her 
hands  over  her  eyes.  Then  her  will  reasserted  itself, 
and  her  firm  lips  closed  tight. 

Nothing  should  make  her  waver  or  alter  her  mind 
now — and  these  phantasies  should  be  ruthlessly  stamped 
out. 

She  sat  down  in  an  armchair,  and  forced  herself  to 
picture  her  life  with  Henry.  It  would  be  full  of  such 
great  and  interesting  things,  and  he  would  be  there  to 
guide  and  protect  her  always  and  keep  her  from  all 
regrets. 

So  presently  she  grew  calm  and  comforted,  and  by 
the  time  she  was  dressed  for  dinner,  she  was  even  bright 
and  gay,  and  made  a  most  sweet  and  gracious  mistress 

157 


THE    ]\IAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

of  Heronac  and  of  the  heart  of  Henry  Fordyce.  Just 
as  they  were  leaving  the  dining-room,  Nicholas  brought 
her  a  message  from  Pere  Ansclme,  to  the  effect  that  a 
very  bad  storm  was  coming  up,  and  she  must  be  sure 
to  have  the  great  iron  shutters  inside  the  lower  dungeon 
windows  securely  closed.  He  had  already  told  Berthe's 
son  to  take  in  the  little  boat. 

And  as  they  crossed  the  connecting  passage,  Madame 
Imogen  gave  a  scream,  for  a  vivid  flash  of  lightning 
came  in  through  the  open  windows — followed  by  a  ter- 
rific crash  of  thunder,  and  when  they  reached  the  sit- 
ting-room the  storm  had  indeed  come. 

It  was  past  midnight  when  Michael  reached  Paris, 
and,  going  in  to  the  Ritz,  met  Miss  Daisy  Van  der  Horn 
and  a  number  of  other  friends  just  leaving  after  a 
merry  dinner  in  a  private  room.  They  greeted  him 
with  fervor.  Where  had  he  been.?  And  would  not  he 
dress  quickly  and  come  on  to  supper  with  them? 

"Why,  you  look  as  glum  as  an  owl,  Michael  Arran- 
toun !"  Miss  Van  der  Horn  herself  informed  him.  "Just 
you  hustle  and  put  on  your  evening  things,  and  we'll 
make  you  feel  a  new  man." 

And  with  the  most  supreme  insolence,  before  them 
all  he  bent  down  and  kissed  both  her  hands — while  his 
blue  eyes  blazed  with  devilment  as  he  answered: 

"I  will  join  you  in  half  an  hour — but  if  you  pull  me 
out  of  bed  like  this,  you  will  have  to  make  a  night  of 
it  with  me.     You  shan't  go  home  at  all!" 

158 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHOLE  month  went  by,  and  after  the  storm 
peace  seemed  to  cover  Heronac.  Sabine  gar- 
dened with  Pere  Anselme,  and  listened  to  his 
kindly,  shrewd  common  sense,  and  then  they  read  poetry 
in  the  afternoons  when  tea  was  over.  "They  read 
Beranger,  Fran9ois  Villon,  Victor  Hugo,  and  every  now 
and  then  they  even  dashed  into  de  Musset ! 

The  good  Father  felt  more  easy  in  his  mind.  After 
all,  his  impressions  of  Lord  Fordyce's  character  had 
been  very  high,  and  he  was  not  apt  to  make  mistakes  in 
people — perhaps  le  bon  Dieu  meant  to  make  an  excep- 
tion in  favor  of  the  beloved  Dame  d'Heronac,  and  to  find 
divorce  a  good  thing !  Sabine  had  heard  from  Mr.  Par- 
sons that  the  negotiations  had  commenced.  It  would 
be  some  time,  though,  before  she  could  be  free.  She 
must  formally  refuse  to  return  when  the  demand  ask- 
ing her  to  do  so  should  come.  This  she  was  prepared 
to  carry  out.  She  firmly  and  determinedly  banished  all 
thought  of  Michael  from  her  mind,  and  hardly  ever 
went  into  the  garden  summer-house — because,  when  she 
did,  she  saw  him  too  plainly  standing  there  in  his  white 

159 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

flannels,  with  the  sprig  of  her  lavender  in  his  coat  and 
his  bold  blue  eyes  looking  up  at  her  with  their  horribly 
powerful  charm.  The  force  of  will  can  do  such  won- 
ders that,  as  the  days  went  on,  the  pain  and  unrest  of 
her  hours  lessened  in  a  great  degree. 

Every  morning  there  came  an  adoring  letter  from 
Henry,  in  which  he  never  said  too  much  or  too  little, 
but  everything  that  could  excite  her  cultivated  intelli- 
gence and  refresh  her  soul.  In  all  the  after  years  of 
her  life,  whatever  might  befall  her,  these  letters  of 
Henry's  would  have  a  lasting  influence  upon  her.  They 
polished  and  moulded  her  taste;  and  put  her  on  her 
mettle  to  answer  them,  and  gradually  they  grew  to  be 
an  absorbing  interest.  He  selected  the  books  she  was 
to  read,  and  sent  her  boxes  of  them.  It  had  been  agreed 
before  he  left  that  he  would  not  return  to  Heronac  for 
some  time;  but  that  in  late  October,  when  the  Princess 
and  Mr.  Cloudwater  got  back  to  Paris,  that  if  they 
could  be  persuaded  to  come  to  London,  Sabine  would 
accompany  them,  and  make  the  acquaintance  of 
Henry's  mother  and  some  of  his  family — who  would  be 
in  ignorance  of  there  being  any  tie  between  them,  and 
the  whole  thing  could  be  done  casually  and  with  good 
sense. 

"I  want  my  mother  and  my  sisters  to  love  you, 
darling,"  Henry  wrote,  "without  a  prejudiced  eye.  My 
mother  would  find  you  perfect,  whatever  you  were  like, 
if  she  knew  that  you  were  my  choice — and  for  the  same 

160 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    ]M0:\1ENT 

reason  my  sisters  would  perhaps  find  fault  with  you; 
so  I  want  you  to  make  their  conquest  without  any 
handicap." 

Sabine,  writing  one  of  her  long  letters  to  Mora\ia 
in  Italy,  said: 

I  am  very  happy,  Morri.  This  calm  Englishman 
is  teaching  me  such  a  number  of  new  aspects  of 
hfe,  and  making  me  more  determined  than  ever 
to  be  a  very  great  lady  in  the  future.  We  are  so 
clever  in  our  nation,  and  all  the  young  vitality  in 
us  is  so  splendid,  when  it  is  directed  and  does 
not  turn  to  nerves  and  fads.  I  am  growing  so 
much  finer,  my  dear,  under  his  guidance.  You 
will  know  me  when  we  meet — because  each  day 
I  grow  more  to  understand. 

The  Pere  Anselme  had  only  one  moment  of  doubt 
again,  just  the  last  morning  before  his  Dame  d'Heronac 
left  for  Paris  when  October  had  come.  It  was  raining 
hard,  and  he  found  her  in  the  great  sitting-room  with  a 
legal-looking  document  in  her  hand.  Her  face  was  very 
pale,  and  lying  on  the  writing-table  beside  her  was  an 
envelope  directed  and  stamped. 

It  contained  her  refusal  to  return  to  her  husband 
signed  and  sealed. 

The  old  priest  did  not  ask  her  any  questions ;  he 
guessed,    and   sympathized. 

But  his  lady  was  too  restless  to  begin  their  read- 
ing, and  stole  from  window  to  window  looking  out 
on  the  gray  sea. 

161 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 


«i 


'I  shall  come  here  for  six  months  in  the  year  just 
as  always.  Father,"  she  said  at  last.  "I  can  never 
sever  myself  from  Heronac." 

"God  forbid,"  exclaimed  the  priest,  aghast.  "If  you 
left  us,  the  sun  no  more  would  seem  to  shine." 

"And  sometimes  I  will  come — alone — because  there 
will  be  times,  my  Father,  when  I  shall  want  to  fight 
things    out — alone." 

The  Pere  Anselme  took  some  steps  nearer  her,  and 
after  a  moment  said,  in  a  grave  voice: 

"Remember  always,  my  daughter,  that  le  bon  Dieu 
settles  things  for  us  mortals  if  we  leave  it  all  to  Him 
— but  if  we  take  the  helm  in  the  direction  of  our  own 
affairs,  it  may  be  He  will  let  circumstance  draw  us  into 
rough  waters.  In  that  case,  the  only  thing  for  us  is 
to  be  true  to  our  word  and  to  our  own  souls — and  to 
use  common  sense." 

Sabine  looked  at  him  with  somber,  startled  eyes. 

"You  mean,  that  I  decided  to  help  myself.  Father 
— about  the  divorce — and  that  now  I  must  look  only 
to  myself —    It  is  a  terrible  thought." 

"You  are  strong,  my  child ;  it  may  be  that  you  were 
directed  from  above,  I  cannot  say,"  and  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders  gently.  *'Only  that  the  good  God  is 
always  merciful.  What  you  must  be  is  true  to  your- 
self. Pax  vobiscum,''^  and  he  placed  his  hand  upon  her 
head. 

But,  for  once,  Sabine  lost  control  of  her  emotions 

162 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    JMOMENT 

and,  bursting  into  a  passion  of  tears,  she  rushed  from 
the  room. 

"Alas!  all  is  well?"  said  the  priest,  half  aloud,  and 
then  he  knelt  by  the  window  and  prayed  fervently — 
without  telling  his  beads. 

But,  at  breakfast,  Sabine's  eyes  were  dry  again,  and 
she  seemed  quite  calm.  She,  too,  had  held  communion 
with  herself,  and  her  will  had  once  more  resumed  the 
mastery.  This  should  be  the  last  exhibition  of  weak- 
ness— and  the  last  feeling  of  weakness ;  and  as  she 
would  suppress  the  outward  signs,  so  she  would  cinish 
the  inner  emotion.  All  life  looked  smiling.  She  was 
young,  healthy  and  rich.  She  had  inspired  the  devoted 
love  of  a  good  and  great  man,  whose  position  would 
give  scope  for  her  ambitions,  whose  intellect  was  a 
source  of  pleasure  and  joy  to  her,  and  whose  tender- 
ness would  smooth  all  her  path.  Wliat  right  had 
she  to  have  even  a  crumpled  rose  leaf!  None  in  the 
world. 

She  must  get  accustomed  even  to  hearing  of  Mi- 
chael, and  perhaps  to  meeting  him  again  face  to  face, 
since  Henry  was  never  to  know — or,  at  least,  not  for 
years  perhaps,  when  she  had  been  so  long  happily  mar- 
ried that  the  knowledge  would  create  no  jar.  And  at 
all  events,  he  need  not  know — of  the  afterwards — that 
should  remain  forever  locked  in  her  heart.  Then  she 
resolutely  turned  to  lighter  thoughts — her  clothes  in 
Paris,  the  pleasure  to  see  Moravia  again — the  excite- 

163 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

ment  of  her  trip  to  London,  where  she  had  never  been, 
except  to  pass  through  that  once  long  ago. 

The  Pere  Anselme  came  to  the  station  with  her,  and 
as  he  closed  the  door  of  the  reserved  carriage  she  was 
in,  he  said: 

"Blessings  be  upon  your  head,  my  child.  And, 
whatever  comes,  may  the  good  God  direct  you  into 
peace." 

Then  he  turned  upon  his  heel,  his  black  eyes  dim — 
for  the  autumn  months  would  be  long  with  only 
Madame  Imogen  for  companion,  beside  his  flock — and 
the  sea. 

Michael  had  got  back  from  Paris  utterly  disgusted 
with  life,  sick  with  himself.  Bitterly  resentful  against 
fate  for  creating  such  a  tangled  skein,  and  dangling 
happiness  in  front  of  him  only  to  snatch  it  away  again. 
He  went  up  to  Arranstoun  and  tried  to  play  his  part 
in  the  rejoicings  at  his  return.  He  opened  the  house, 
engaged  a  full  staff  of  servants,  and  filled  it  with  guests. 
He  shot  with  frantic  eagerness  for  one  week,  and  then 
with  indifference  the  next.  Whatever  he  may  have 
done  wrong  in  his  life,  his  punishment  had  come.  He 
had  naturally  an  iron  will,  and  when  he  began  to  use 
it  to  calm  his  emotions,  a  better  state  of  things  might 
set  in,  but  for  the  time  being  he  was  just  drifting,  and 
sorrow  was  his  friend. 

His  suite  at  Arranstoun — which  he  had  never  seen 
since  the  day  after  his  wedding,  having  gone  up  to  Lon- 

164 


THE  :man  and  the  moment 

don  that  very  next  night,  and  from  there  made  all  his 
arrangements  for  the  China  trip — gave  him  a  shock — 
he  who  had  nerves  of  steel — and  into  the  chapel  he 
*  loathed  to  go.  His  one  consolation  was  that  Binko, 
now  seven  years  old,  had  not  transferred  his  affection 
to  Alexander  Armstrong,  with  whom  he  had  spent  the 
time;  but  after  an  hour  or  two  had  rapturously  ap- 
peared to  remember  his  master,  and  now  never,  if  he 
could  help  it,  left  his  side. 

Michael  took  to  reading  books — no  habit  of  his 
youth! — although  his  shrewd  mind  had  not  left  him  in 
the  usual  plight  of  blank  ignorance,  which  is  often  the 
portion  of  a  splendid,  young  athlete  leaving  Eton! 
But  now  he  studied  subjects  seriously,  and  the  whys 
and  wherefores  of  things;  and  he  grew  rather  to  enjoy 
the  evenings  alone,  between  the  goings  and  comings  of 
his  parties,  when,  buried  in  a  huge  chair  before  his  log 
fire,  with  only  Binko's  snorts  for  company,  he  could 
pore  over  some  volume  of  interest.  He  studied  his 
family  records,  too,  getting  all  sorts  of  interesting  docu- 
ments out  of  his  muniment  room. 

What  a  fierce,  brutal  lot  they  had  always  been !  No 
wonder  the  chapel  had  to  be  so  gloriously  filled — and 
then  there  came  to  his  memory  the  one  little  window 
which  was  still  plain,  and  how  he  had  told  Sabine  that 
he  supposed  it  had  been  left  for  him  to  garnish — as  an 
expiatory  offering — the  race  being  so  full  of  rapine 
and  sin ! 

165 


THE    INIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

Should  he  put  the  gorgeous  glass  in  now — it  was 
time.  But  a  glass  window  could  not  prevent  the  pun- 
ishment— since  it  had  already  fallen  upon  him,  nor 
even  alleviate  the  suffering. 

He  was  staring  straight  in  front  of  him  at  the  pic- 
ture of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots',  landing — it  had  been 
painted  at  about  1850,  when  romantic  subjects  of  that 
sort  were  in  vogue,  and  "the  fellow  in  the  blue  doublet" 
was  said,  by  the  artist,  to  represent  the  celebrated  Ar- 
ranstoun  of  that  time.  The  one  who  had  lulled  a  IMore- 
ton  and  stolen  his  wife.  No  doubt  that  is  why  his 
grandfather  had  bought  it.  He  thought  it  looked  very 
well  over  the  secret  door,  and  then  he  deliberately  let 
himself  picture  how  it  had  once  fallen  forward,  and 
all  the  circumstances  which  had  followed  in  consequence. 
He  reconstructed  every  word  he  could  remember  of  his 
and  Sabine's  conversation  that  afternoon.  He  repic- 
tured  her  innocent  baby  face — and  from  there  on  to 
the  night  of  the  wedding.  He  reviewed  all  his  emotions 
in  the  chapel,  and  the  strange  exaltation  which  was 
upon  him  then — and  the  mad  fire  which  awoke  in  his 
blood  with  his  first  kiss  or  of  her  fresh  young  lips  when 
the  vows  were  said.  Every  minute  incident  was  burned 
into  his  memory  until  the  cutting  of  the  cake — after 
that  it  seemed  to  be  a  chaos  of  wild  passion,  and  mo- 
ments of  extraordinary  bliss.  He  suddenly  could  al- 
most see  her  little  head  there  unresisting  on  his  breast, 
all  tears  and  terror  at  last  hushed  to  rest  by  his  fond 

166 


THE    MXS    AXD    THE    MOMENT 

caresses — and  then  he  started  from  his  seat — ^the  mem- 
ory was  too  terribly  sweet. 

He  had,  of  course,  been  the  most  frightful  brute. 
Nothing  could  alter  or  redeem  that  fact;  but  when 
sleep  came  to  them  at  length  he  had  believed  that  he 
had  made  her  forgive  him,  and  that  he  could  teach  her 
to  love  him  and  have  no  regrets.  Then  the  agony  to 
wake  and  find  her  gone ! 

What  made  her  go  after  all?  How  had  she  slipped 
from  his  arms  without  awakening  him?  If  he  had  only 
heard  her  when  she  was  stealing  from  the  room,  he 
could  have  reasoned  with  her,  and  even  have  again 
caught  her  and  kissed  her  into  obedience — but  he  had 
slept  on. 

He  remembered  all  his  emotions — rage  at  her  daring 
to  cross  his  will  to  begin  with,  and  then  the  deep  wound 
to  his  self-love.  That  is  what  had  made  him  write  the 
hard  letter  which  forever  put  an  end  to  their  reunion. 

"What  a  paltry,  miserable,  arrogant  wretch  I  was 
then,"  he  thought — "and  how  pitifully  uncontrolled.** 

But  all  was  now  too  late. 

The  next  morning's  post  brought  him  a  letter  from 
Henry  Fordycc,  in  which  he  told  him  he  had  been  mean- 
ing to  write  to  him  ever  since  he  had  returned  from 
France  more  than  a  month  ago,  but  had  been  too  oc- 
cupied. The  whole  epistle  breathed  ecstatic  happiness. 
He  was  utterly  absorbed  in  his  lady  love,  it  was  plain 
to  be  seen,  and  since  his  mind  seemed  so  peaceful  and 

167 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    M0:MENT 

joyous,  it  was  evident  she  must  reciprocate.  Well, 
Henry  was  worthy  of  her — but  this  in  no  way  healed 
the  hurt.  jMichael  violently  tore  up  the  letter  and 
bounded  from  his  bed,  passion  boiling  in  him  again. 
He  wanted  to  slay  something ;  he  almost  wished  his 
friend  had  been  an  enemy  that  he  could  have  gone  out 
and  fought  with  him  and  reseized  his  bride.  What 
matter  that  she  should  be  unwilling — the  Arranstoun 
brides  had  often  been  unwilling.  She  had  been  un- 
willing before,  and  he  had  crushed  her  resistance,  and 
even  made  her  eventually  show  him  some  acquiescence 
and  content.  He  could  certainly  do  it  again,  and  with 
more  chance  of  success,  since  she  was  a  woman  now 
and  not  a  child,  and  would  better  understand  emotions 
of  love. 

He  stood  there  shaking  with  passion.  What  should 
he  do?  What  step  should  he  take?  Then  Binko,  who 
had  emerged  from  his  basket,  gave  a  tiny  half-bark — ■ 
he  wanted  to  express  his  sympathy  and  excitement. 
If  his  beloved  master  was  transported  with  rage,  it  was 
evidently  the  moment  for  him  to  show  some  feeling  also, 
and  to  go  and  seize  by  the  throat  man  or  beast  who 
had  caused  this  tumult. 

His  round,  faithful,  adoring  eyes  were  upturned, 
and  every  fat  wrinkle  quivered  with  love  and  readiness 
to  obey  the  smallest  command,  while  he  snorted  and 
slobbered  with  emotion.  Something  about  him  touched 
Michael,  and  made  him  stoop  and  seize  him  in  his  arms 

168 


THE    IVIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

and  roll  the  solid  mass  on  the  bed  in  rough,  loving  ap- 
preciation. 

"You  understand,  old  man !"  he  cried  fondly. 
"You'd  go  for  Henry  or  anyone — or  hold  her  for  me" 
— 'And  then  the  passion  died  out  of  him,  as  the  dog 
licked  his  hand.  "But  we  have  been  brutes  once  too 
often,  Binko,  and  now  we'll  have  to  pay  the  price.  She 
belongs  to  Henry,  who's  behaved  like  a  gentleman — 
not  to  us  any  more." 

So  he  rang  for  his  valet  and  went  to  his  bath  quietly, 
and  thus  ended  the  storm  of  that  day. 

And  Henry  Fordyce  in  London  was  awaiting  the  ar- 
rival of  his  well-beloved,  who,  with  the  Princess  and 
Mr.  Cloudwater,  was  due  to  be  at  the  Ritz  Hotel  that 
evening,  when  they  would  dine  all  together  and  spend 
a  time  of  delight. 

And  far  away  in  Brittany,  the  Pere  Anselme  read  in 
his  book  of  meditations: 

It  is  when  the  sky  is  clearest  that  the  heaviest 
bolt  falls — it  would  be  well  for  all  good  Chris- 
tians to  be  on  the  alert. 

And  chancing  to  look  from  his  cottage  window,  he 
perceived  that  a  heavy  rain  cloud  had  gathered  over  the 
Chateau  of  Heronac. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

XN  the  morning  before  they  left  Heronac,  Sa- 
bine's elderly  maid,  Simone,  came  to  her  with 
the  face  she  always  wore  when  her  speech 
might  contain  any  reference  to  the  past.  She  had 
been  with  Sabine  ever  since  the  week  after  her  mar- 
riage, and  was  a  widow  and  a  Parisian,  with  a  kind  and 
motherly  heart. 

"Will  madame  take  the  blue  despatch-box  with  her 
as  usual?"  she  asked. 

Sabine  hesitated  for  a  second.  She  had  never  gone 
anywhere  without  it  in  all  those  five  years — but  now 
everything  was  changed.  It  might  be  wiser  to  leave  it 
safely  at  Heronac.  Then  her  eyes  fell  upon  it,  and 
a  slight  shudder  came  over  her  of  the  kind  which  peo- 
ple describe  as  "a  goose  walking  over  your  grave." 

No,  she  could  not  leave  it  behind. 

"I  will  take  it,  Simone." 

"As  madame  wishes,"  and  the  maid  went  on  her  way. 
******* 

When  Sabine  had  reached  London  late  on  that  even- 
ing in  the  June  of  1907  on  her  leaving  Scotland  she 

170 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

found,  in  response  to  the  wire  she  had  sent  him  from 
Edinburgh,  Mr.  Parsons  waiting  for  her  at  the  sta- 
tion, his  astonishment  as  great  as  his  perturbation. 

Her  words  had  been  few ;  her  young  mind  had  been 
firmly  made  up  in  the  train  coming  south.  No  one 
should  ever  know  that  there  had  been  any  deviation 
from  the  original  plan  she  had  laid  out  for  herself. 
With  a  force  of  will  marvellous  in  one  of  her  tender 
years,  she  had  controlled  her  extreme  emotion,  and  ex- 
cept that  she  looked  very  pale  and  seemed  very  deter- 
mined and  quiet,  there  were  no  traces  of  the  furnace 
through  which  she  had  passed,  in  which  had  perished 
all  her  old  conceptions  of  existence,  although  as  yet 
she  realized  nothing  but  that  she  wanted  to  go  away 
and  to  be  free  and  forget  her  tremors,  and  presently 
join  Moravia. 

The  marriage  had  been  perfectly  legal,  as  the  certi- 
ficate showed,  and  Mr.  Parsons,  whatever  his  personal 
feelings  about  the  matter  were,  knew  that  he  had  not  the 
smallest  control  over  her — and  was  bound  to  hand  over 
to  her  her  money  to  do  with  as  she  pleased. 

She  merely  told  him  the  facts — that  the  marriage 
had  been  only  an  arrangement  to  this  end — Mr.  Ar- 
ranstoun  having  agreed  before  the  ceremony  that  this 
should  be  so — and  that  she  wanted  to  engage  a  good 
maid  and  go  over  to  Paris  as  soon  as  possible,  to  see 
her  friend  the  Princess  Torniloni. 

She  had  decided  in  tlie  train  that  her  methods  with 

171 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

all  who  opposed  her  must  be  as  they  used  to  be  with 
Sister  Jeanne — a  statement  of  her  intentions,  and  then 
silence  and  no  explanations.  Sister  Jeanne  had  given  up 
all  argument  with  her  in  her  last  year  at  the  convent ! 

Mr.  Parsons  soon  found  that  his  words  were  falling 
upon  deaf  ears,  and  were  perfectly  useless.  She  had 
cut  herself  adrift  from  her  aunt  and  uncle,  whom  she 
cordially  disliked,  leaving  them  a  letter  to  tell  them 
that  as  she  was  now  her  own  mistress,  she  never  meant 
to  trouble  them  or  Mr.  Greenbank  again,  and  she  bid 
them  adieu! 

"It  is  not  as  if  they  had  ever  been  the  least  kind  to 
me,"  she  did  condescend  to  inform  the  lawyer.  "They 
couldn't  bear  me  really — Samuel,  although  he  was  such 
a  poor  creature,  was  far  the  best  of  them.  Uncle  was 
only  wanting  my  money  for  him,  and  Aunt  Jemima  de- 
tested me,  and  only  had  me  with  her  because  Papa  left 
in  his  will  that  she  had  to,  or  lose  his  legacy.  You 
can't  think  what  I've  learned  of  their  meannesses  in  the 
month  I've  know  them!" 

Thus  Mr.  Parsons  had  no  further  arguments  to  use 
— and  felt  that  after  seeing  her  safe  to  his  own  hotel 
that  night,  and  helping  to  engage  a  suitable  and  re- 
sponsible maid  next  day  to  travel  with  her,  he  could  do 
no  more. 

The  question  of  the  name  troubled  him  most,  and  he 
almost  refused  to  agree  that  she  should  be  known  as 
Mrs.  Howard. 

172 


THE    JVIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

"But  I  have  told  Mr.  Arranstoun  that  I  mean  to 
be  only  that!"  Sabine  exclaimed,  "and  he  didn't  mind, 
and" — here  her  violet  eyes  flashed — "I  will  not.  be  any- 
thing else — so  there!" 

Mr.  Parsons  shrugged  his  shoulders ;  she  was  impos- 
sible to  deal  with,  and  as  he  himself  was  obliged  to  re- 
turn to  America  in  the  following  week,  he  felt  the  only 
thing  to  do  was  to  let  her  have  her  way.  And  so  well 
did  he  guard  his  client's  secret  then  and  afterwards, 
that  even  Simone,  though  a  shrewd  Frenchwoman,  had 
never  known  that  her  mistress'  name  was  not  really 
Howard.  At  the  time  of  her  being  engaged  she  was 
just  leaving  an  American  lady  from  the  far  West  whom 
Mr.  Parsons  knew  of,  and  she  was  delighted  to  come  as 
maid  and  almost  chaperon  to  this  sweet,  but  wilful 
young  lady. 

So  they  had  gone  to  Paris  together,  to  order  clothes 
— such  a  joyous  task — and  to  make  herself  forget 
those  hours  so  terribly  full  of  strange  emotion  was  all 
which  occupied  Sabine's  mind  at  this  period.  Other  pre- 
occupations came  later;  and  it  was  then  that  she  lis- 
tened to  Simone's  suggestion  of  going  to  San  Fran- 
cisco. The  maid  knew  it  well,  and  there  they  spent 
several  months  in  a  quiet  hotel.  But  they  neither  of 
them  cared  much  to  remember  those  days,  and  noth- 
ing would  have  ever  induced  Sabine  to  return  thither. 
******* 

She  thought  of  these  things  now,  as  Simone  left  the 

173 


THE  ^lAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

room  with  the  blue  case,  but  she  put  from  her  all  dis- 
turbing remembrances  on  her  journey  to  Paris,  and 
rushed  into  Moravia's  arms,  who  was  waiting  for  her 
in  her  palatial  apartment  in  the  Avenue  du  Bois ;  they 
really  loved  one  another,  these  two  women,  as  few  sis- 
ters do. 

"Sabine,  you  darling!"  the  Princess  cried,  while 
Girolamo,  kept  up  an  hour  later  to  welcome  his  god- 
mamma,  screamed  with  joy. 

"Now  tell  me  everything,  everything,  pet!"  Moravia 
demanded,  as  she  poured  out  the  tea.  "Has  the  di- 
vorce been  settled?  How  soon  will  you  be  free?  When 
can  you  get  married  to  this  nice  Englishman?" 

"I  don't  exactly  know,  Morri — the  law  is  such  a 
strange  thing ;  however,  my — husband — has  agreed  and 
begun  to  take  the  necessary  steps  by  requesting  me  to 
go  back  to  him,  which  I  have  refused  to  do." 

"You  are  looking  perfectly  splendid,  dear.  Having 
all  that  brain  stimulation  evidently  suits  you.  Wasn't 
the  visit  of  Lord  Fordyce  delightful  in  that  romantic 
old  castle?  What  did  you  do  all  the  time?  and  what 
was  the  friend  like? — you  did  not  tell  me." 

Sabine  stirred  her  tea. 

"He  only  stayed  one  night — ^he  was  quite  a  nice  crea- 
ture— Mr.  Arranstoun." 

"Of  the  castle?"  The  Princess  was  thrilled.  "Why, 
darhng,  he  must  be  the  one  that  they  say  is  going 
to  marry  Daisy  Van  der  Horn.     He  has  got  some  mat- 

174 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

rimonial  tangle  like  you  have,  and  when  he  is  through 
with  it,  Daisy  is  such  dead  nuts  on  him,  they  say  she 
is  certain  to  get  him  to  marry  her !  Do  tell  me  exactly 
what  he  is  like — I  am  not  over  fond  of  Daisy,  you 
know — ^but  she  is  a  splendid  specimen  of  dash  and  vim." 

"He  is  good-looking,  Morri — and  he  has  got  'it.'  " 

"I  gathered  that  from  all  that  I  have  heard  of  him 
here.  Old  Miss  Buskin,  Daisy's  aunt,  you  remember 
the  old  horror,  says  he  is  'just  too  sweet,'  and  'that 
sassy' — ^j'on  know  her  frightfully  vulgar  way  of  speak- 
ing!— that  even  she  is  'afraid  to  be  alone  in  the  room 
with  him ! '  " 

"I  dare  say — he — looked  like  that — ^he  ought  to  suit 
Daisy,"  and  then  Sabine  felt  she  had  been  spiteful  and 
tried  to  divert  matters  by  asking  where  Mr.  Cloud- 
water  was. 

"Papa  will  be  in  in  a  moment.  He  has  been  dying 
for  you  to  come  back."  But  the  Princess  had  not  done 
with  Mr.  Arranstoun  yet.  The  Van  der  Horn  coterie 
had  rung  with  his  exploits  on  her  return  from  Italy, 
and  the  lurid  picture   had  interested  her  deeply. 

"I  do  wish  I  had  been  at  Hcronac,  Sabine,  I  would 
love  to  have  seen  that  young  man.  Daisy's  aunt  told 
me  he  was  wild  about  her  niece,  and  at  one  moment  she 
thought  everything  was  settled — it  must  have  been  after 
he  came  back  from  Brittany — and  then  he  went  off  to 
England — probably  he  does  not  like  to  speak  out  until 
he  is  free." 

175 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

Sabine  felt  that  strange  sensation  she  had  experienced 
once  before,  of  hart  sinking — and  then,  furious  with 
herself,  she  mastered  it  and  became  more  determined 
than  ever  to  carry  out  her  intention  of  growing  ac- 
customed to  hearing  of,  and  talking  about  Michael 
calmly. 

"You  are  sure  to  meet  him  in  England,"  she  said; 
"he  is  a  great  friend  of  Henry's." 

But  afterwards,  when  she  was  alone  resting  in  her 
cosy  room  before  dinner,  she  deliberately  pulled  the 
blue  despatch-box  toward  her  and  looked  at  some  of  its 
contents,  while  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes,  which  even 
the  cynical  thoughts  which  she  was  calling  to  her  aid 
could  not  quite  suppress.  Would  things  have  been  dif- 
ferent if  she  had  been  able  to  send  INIichael  the  letter 
which  she  had  written  to  him  in  the  September  of  1907  ? 
The  letter  she  had  asked  Mr.  Parsons,  who  was  again 
in  London,  to  have  delivered  to  him,  into  his  hand — and 
which  came  back  to  her  in  Paris  with  the  information 
from  the  old  lawyer  that  Mr.  Arranstoun  had  left  Eng- 
land for  the  wilds  of  China  and  Tibet,  and  might  not 
get  any  letters  for  more  than  a  year.  She  remembered 
how  that  night  she  had  cried  herself  to  sleep  with  mis- 
ery, and  with  a  growing  regret  at  having  left  Mi- 
chael, and  a  pitiful  longing  just  to  be  clasped  once 
more  in  his  strong  arms  and  comforted.  Oh!  the  hate- 
ful, wretched  memories!  To  have  gone  off  at  once  to 
China  like  that  proved  his  callousness  and  indifference. 

176 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    ]\IOMENT 

Then,  in  spite  of  herself,  her  thoughts  would  review  all 
he  had  said  to  her  on  that  morning  in  the  garden.  No 
— there  had  not  been  one  word  of  meaning,  not  even 
any  suggestion  of  regret  that  she  was  practically  en- 
gaged to  Henr3\  There  had  been  some  faint  allusion 
to  people  being  fools — and  brutes  when  young,  but  not 
that  they  would  wish  to  repair  the  faults  which  they 
had  committed  then.  The  whole  thing  was  plain — he 
had  never  really  cared  an  atom  for  her.  He  had  been 
only  affected  by  passion,  even  on  her  wedding  night 
when  he  was  pouring  love  vows  into  her  startled  ears. 

"He  was  probably  horribly  surprised  to  come  upon 
me  at  Heronac,"  her  thoughts  now  ran,  "and  then  just 
sampled  me — and  went  off  as  soon  as  he  could — back  to 
Daisy  in  Paris !" 

Here  chagrin  began  to  rise,  and  soon  dried  all  her 
tears. 

Yes!  she  hoped  he  would  ask  them  to  Arranstoun. 
She  would  certainly  go,  and  try  to  punish  him  as  much 
as  she  could  by  showing  her  absorption  in  Henry,  and 
her  complete  indifference  to  himself.  His  vanity  would 
be  wounded,  since  he  had  owned  to  being  a  dog  in  the 
manger.  That  would  be  her  only  revenge — and  what 
a  paltry  one !  She  felt  that — and  was  ashamed  of  her- 
self; Ijut  all  human  beings  are  paltry  when  their  self- 
love  is  wounded  and  the  passion  of  jealousy  has  them 
in  its  thrall,  and  Sabine  was  no  better  nor  worse  than 
any  other  woman  probalily.     Once  more  she  made  reso- 

177 


THE    I^IAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

lutions,  firm  resolutions  to  tliink  no  more  of  Michael 
either  good  or  bad.  It  was  perfectly  sickening — the 
humiliation  and  degradation  of  his  so  frequently  com- 
ing into  her  mind.  She  pulled  the  despatch-box  nearer 
to  her  again,  and  in  anger  and  contempt  took  from 
an  envelope  a  brown  and  withered  spray  of  flowers, 
which  had  once  been  stcphanotis,  and  with  forceful 
rage  flung  them  into  the  fire. 

"There !  that  is  done  with — ridiculous,  hateful  senti- 
ment, go !" 

And  when  she  had  shut  the  lid  down  with  a  snap,  she 
rang  for  Simone  and  began  to  dress  for  dinner,  an  ex- 
tra flush  burning  in  her  cheeks. 

They  crossed  to  England  a  week  or  so  later.  Lord 
Fordyce  meeting  them  at  Charing  Cross,  and  going 
with  them  to  the  Hotel. 

How  dear  he  seemed,  and  how  distinguished  he  looked ! 
He  was  as  ever  a  soothing  and  uplifting  influence,  and 
before  the  evening  was  over,  Sabine  felt  calmed  and 
happy,  and  sure  she  had  done  the  right  thing  in  de- 
ciding to   link  her  life  with  his. 

But  it  was  not  so  with  Moravia.  Lord  Fordyce  had 
attracted  her  from  the  moment  she  had  first  seen  him, 
and  as  things  do  during  periods  of  time,  unconsciously 
this  feeling  had  simmered,  and  upon  seeing  him  again 
had  boiled  up;  and  alas!  Moravia — Ijeautiful  young 
widow  and  Princess — found  herself  extremely  perturbed 
and  excited,  and  undoubtedly  becoming  deeply  inter- 

178 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

ested  in  the  declared  lover  of  her  friend.  Henry  for 
her  had  every  charm.  He  was  gentle  and  courteous, 
he  was  witty,  and  calm  with  that  well-bred  conscious- 
ness which  she  adored  in  Englishmen,  and  which  Sabine 
had  always  said  irritated  her  so. 

It  was  all  too  exasperating  because,  with  her  un- 
erring feminine  instinct,  she  divined  that  Sabine  really 
did  not  love  him  at  all.  If  she  had  felt  that  she  did, 
^loravia  could  have  borne  it  better,  but  as  it  was  fate 
was  too  hard,  and  when  a  week  went  by  the  Princess 
began  actually  to  feel  unhappy.  They  were  continually 
surrounded  with  friends,  and  at  every  meal  had  the 
kind  of  parties  that  once  she  had  taken  such  delight 
in.  People  were  just  beginning  to  come  back  to  Lon- 
don, and  they  had  amusing  play  dinners  and  what  not, 
and  all  Henry's  family,  an  intelligent  and  aristocratic 
band,  had  showered  attention  upon  them.  The  Prin- 
cess had  very  seldom  been  In  London  before — and  quite 
understood  that,  but  for  the  one  particular  cherry  be- 
ing out  of  reach  which  spoilt  all  her  joy,  she  could  have 
been,  to  use  one  of  Miss  Van  der  Horn's  pet  expres- 
sions, "terribly  amuscdL"  Sabine,  as  the  days  wore  on, 
and  she  was  under  Henry's  Influence  again,  lost  her 
feeling  of  unrest  and  grew  happy,  and  heard  Michael's 
name  without  a  tremor. 

For  Moravia  drugged  him  Into  the  conversation  by 
saying  how  much  she  would  like  to  meet  him  after  all 
she  had  heard  of  him  In  Paris. 

179 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

"I  had  a  letter  from  him  this  morning,"  Lord  For- 
djce  said.  "He  is  shooting  in  Norfolk  at  this  moment, 
but  comes  up  to  town  on  Friday  night.  I  will  ask  him 
to  dine  then,  Princess,  and  you  shall  see  what  you  think 
of  him.  He  really  is  a  very  charming  fellow,  for  all 
iiis  recklessness — and  I  expect  half  those  enchanting 
tales  they  told  you  of  him  are  overdrawn." 

"Oh,  I  hope  not!"  Moravia  laughed.  "Do  not  dis- 
illusion me!" 

Next  day,  Henry  told  them  that  he  had  wired  to  Mr. 
Arranstoun,  who  had  wired  back  that  he  was  very  sorry 
he  could  not  dine  with  them  on  Friday  and  go  to  a 
play,  so  Lord  Fordyce  promised  the  Princess  he  would 
find  another  occasion  to  present  his   friend. 

To  liim,  Henry,  this  week  in  late  October  had  been 
one  of  almost  unalloyed  happiness — although  he  could 
have  dispensed  with  the  continuous  parties  ;  still,  he  felt 
the  Princess  had  to  be  amused,  and  perhaps  in  a  larger 
company  he  got  more  chance  of  speaking  to  his  beloved 
alone. 

The  position  of  a  man  nearly  always  affects  women 
— and  the  great  and  unmistakable  prestige,  which  it  was 
plain  to  be  seen  Henry  possessed,  had  added  to  his  charm 
in  both  Moravia  and  Sabine's  eyes.  It  gratified  Sa- 
bine's vanity.  She  knew  this,  she  was  quite  cognizant 
of  the  fact  that  it  pleased  her.  She  felt  glad  and  proud 
that  she  should  occupy  so  exalted  a  place  in  the  world's 
eyes,  as  she  would  do  as  his  wife.     Surely  all  the  great 

180 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    IVIOMENT 

duties  and  interests  of  that  position  would  make  life 
very  fair.  It  would  be  such  peace  and  relief  when  the 
divorce  proceedings  would  come  on  and  be  finished  with 
— a  much  less  tiresome  affair  in  Scotland,  she  had  heard, 
than  in  an  English  court. 

When  Michael  Arranstoun  got  Henry's  wire  asking 
him  to  dine,  he  laughed  bitterly.  There  was  something 
so  cynically  entertaining  in  the  idea  of  the  whole  situ- 
ation !  He  was  being  asked  out  to  meet  the  wife  whom 
he  was  madly  in  love  with,  and  was  preparing  to  divorce 
for  desertion,  so  that  she  might  marry  the  giver  of  the 
invitation ! 

He  was  tempted  to  accept  for  a  second  or  two,  the 
desire  to  see  her  again  was  growing  almost  more  than 
he  could  bear;  but  at  this  period  he  had  still  strength 
to  refuse — and  then,  as  the  days  went  on,  it  seemed  that 
nothing  gave  him  any  pleasure,  and  that  constantly 
and  incessantly  his  thoughts  turned  to  one  subject. 
If  there  had  been  no  friendship  or  honor  mixed  up  in 
the  thing,  nothing  would  have  been  simpler  than  to  sit 
down  and  write  to  Henry  telling  him  plainly  that  Sabine 
was  his  wife — and  that  she  must  choose  between  them. 
But  then  he  remembered  that,  apart  from  all  friendship, 
Sabine  had  already  plainly  expressed  her  choice,  and 
that  he  had  absolutely  no  right  to  hold  her  in  any  way 
since  he  had  given  her  permission  all  those  years  ago  to 
make  what  she  chose  of  her  life.  He  had  not  yet  in- 
structed his  lawyers  to  begin  actual  proceedings — he 

181 


THE    IVIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

was  in  a  furnace  of  indecision  and  unrest.  He  would 
like  just  somehow  to  get  Sabine  to  Arranstoun  first — 
then,  if  after  that  she  still  plainly  showed  that  she  loved 
Henry,  he  would  make  himself  go  ahead  with  the  free- 
dom scheme;  but  if  he  conmienced  actual  proceedings 
now,  by  no  possibility  could  she  come  to  Arranstoun — 
and  this  idea — to  get  her  to  Arranstoun,  began  to  be  an 
obsession.  Just  in  proportion  as  his  nature  was  wild 
and  rebellious,  so  the  mad  longing  grew  and  grew  in 
him  to  induce  her  to  come  once  more  into  his  house. 
And  it  would  seem  that  fate  at  first  intended  to  assist 
him  in  this,  for  on  the  second  of  November  the  party 
went  up  North  to  stay  with  Rose  Forster,  Henry's  sis- 
ter, at  Ebbsworth  for  a  great  ball  she  was  giving  for  a 
newly  married  niece. 


fi 


CHAPTER    XV 

OR  a  day  or  two,  INlichael  Arranstoun  could 
not  make  up  his  mind,  when  he  heard  of  the 
Ebbsworth  ball,  as  to  whether  or  no  he  ought 
to  go  to  it.  He  had  several  conversations  with  Binko 
upon  the  subject,  and  finally  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  would  go.  He  had  grown  so  desperately  un- 
happy by  this  time,  that  he  cared  no  more  whether  it 
were  right  or  wrong — he  must  see  Sabine.  He  had  not 
believed  that  it  could  be  possible  for  him  to  suffer  to 
such  a  degree  about  a  woman.  He  must  satisfy  him- 
self absolutely  as  to  the  fact  of  her  loving  Henry. 

Rose  Forster  had  written,  of  course,  to  ask  him  to 
stay  in  the  house  for  it — holding  out  the  bait  that  she 
had  two  absolutely  charming  Americans  coming.  So 
Michael  fell — and  accepted,  not  without  excusing  him- 
self to  Binko  as  he  finished  writing  out  his  wire: 

Thousand  thanks.     I  will  come. 

"I  am  a  coward,  Binko — I  ought  to  have  the  pluck 
to  go  off  to  Tiinbuctoo  and  let  Henry  have  a  fair  field 
— but  I  haven't  and  must  be  certain  first." 

183 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

They  were  all  at  tea  in  the  library  at  Ebbsworth  when 
he  arrived,  having  motored  over  from  Arranstoun  after 
lunch. 

Everyone  was  enchanted  to  see  him,  and  greeted  him 
with  delight.  He  knew  almost  the  whole  twenty  of 
them,  most  of  whom  were  old  friends. 

The  hostess  took  him  over  to  tl^  tea  table,  and  sit- 
ting near  it  in  a  ravishing  teagown  was  Moravia.  Rose 
Forster  introduced  him  casually,  while  she  poured  him 
out  some  tea. 

The  library  was  a  big  room  with  one  or  two  tall 
screens,  and  from  behind  the  furthest  one  there  came 
a  low,  rippling  laugh.  The  sound  of  it  maddened 
Michael,  and  his  bold  blue  eyes  blazed  as  he  began  to 
talk  to  the  Princess.  His  naturally  easy  manners 
made  him  able  to  carry  on  some  kind  of  a  conversation, 
but  his  whole  attention  was  fixed  upon  the  whereabouts 
of  Sabine.  She  was  with  Henry,  of  course,  behind 
that  Spanish  leather  screen.  He  hardly  even  noticed 
that  Moravia  was  a  very  pretty  woman,  most  won- 
derfully dressed;  but  he  felt  she  was  a  powerful 
unit  in  his  game  of  getting  Sabine  to  Arranstoun, 
and  so  he  endeavored  to  make  himself  agreeable  to' 
her. 

Presently,  in  the  general  move.  Lord  Fordyce  and 
his  lady  love  emerged  with  two  other  people  they  had 
been  talking  to,  and  Henry  came  up  to  Michael  with 
outstretched  hand. 

184 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

He  was  awfully  glad  to  see  him,  he  said.  Then  this 
estranged  husband  and  wife  were  face  to  face. 

It  was  a  wonderful  moment  for  both  of  them,  and 
with  all  the  schooling  that  each  one  had  been  through, 
it  was  extremely  difficult  to  behave  naturally.  Michael 
did  not  fight  with  himself,  except  to  keep  from  all  out- 
ward expression ;  he  knew  he  was  simply  overcome  with 
emotion ;  but  Sabine  continued  to  throw  dust  in  her 
own  eyes.  The  sudden  wild  beating  of  her  heart  she 
put  down  to  every  other  reason  but  the  true  one.  It 
was  most  wrong  of  Michael  to  have  come  to  this  party ; 
but  it  was,  of  course,  done  out  of  bravado  to  show  her 
that  she  did  not  matter  to  him  at  all — so  with  supreme 
sangfroid  she  greeted  him  casually,  and  then  turned 
eyes  of  tenderness  to  Henry. 

"You  were  going  to  show  me  the  miniatures  in  the 
next  room.  Lord  Fordyce — were  you  not?"  she  said, 
sweetly,  and  took  a  step  on  toward  the  door,  leaving 
Michael  with  pain  and  rage  for  company. 

She  had  never  allowed  Henry  to  kiss  her  since  that 
one  occasion  at  Heronac.  It  was  not  as  it  should  be, 
she  affirmed — until  she  were  free  and  really  engaged 
to  him,  she  prayed  him  to  behave  always  only  as  a 
friend.  Lord  Fordyce  acquiesced,  as  he  would  have 
done  to  any  penance  she  chose  to  impose  upon  him,  and 
in  his  secret  thoughts  rather  respected  her  for  her  de- 
cision ;  he  was  then  more  than  delighted  when  she  put 
her  slender  hand  upon  his  ann  with  possessive  faniili- 

185 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

arity  as  soon  as  thej  had  reached  the  anteroom  where 
the  collection  of  miniatures  were  kept;  but  he  did  not 
know  that  she  was  aware  that  Michael  stood  where  he 
could  see  them  through  the  archway. 

"My  darling!"  and  he  lifted  the  white  fingers  to  his 
lips.  Sabine  had  particularly  beautiful  hands,  and 
they  were  his  delight.  She  never  wore  any  rings — only 
her  wedding-ring  and  the  one  great  pearl  Henry  had 
persuaded  her  to  let  him  give  her,  but  this  was  on  her 
right  hand. 

"It  would  mean  nothing  for  me  to  have  it  on  the  left 
one — while  that  bar  of  gold  is  there,"  she  had  told  him. 
"I  will  only  take  it  if  you  let  me  have  it  as  a  gage  of 
friendship,"  and  as  ever  he  agreed.  He  was  so  pas- 
sionately in  love  with  her,  there  was  nothing  in  the 
world  he  would  not  have  done  or  left  undone  to  please 
her.  His  eye  followed  her  always  with  rapture,  and 
her  slightest  wish  was  instantly  obeyed.  Sabine  was 
naturally  an  autocrat,  and,  but  for  the  great  generosity 
of  her  spirit,  might  have  made  him  suffer  considerably, 
but  she  did  not,  being  consistently  gentle  and  sweet. 

"My  darling!"  Henry  repeated,  in  the  little  ante- 
room, while  his  fond  eyes  devoured  her  face.  "Some- 
times I  love  you  so  it  frightens  me — My  God,  if  any- 
thing were  to  take  you  from  me  now,  I  do  not  think  I 
could  bear  it." 

Sabine  shivered  as  she  bent  down  to  look  at  a  case  of 
Cosways  in  a  show  table. 

186 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

"Nothing  can  take  you  from  me,  Henry — unless 
something  goes  wrong  about  the  divorce.  My  lawyer 
arrives  in  England  to-day  from  America  on  purpose 
to  consult  me  and  see  what  can  be  done  to  hasten  mat- 
ters. My — husband — ^has  not  as  yet  started  the  pro- 
ceedings it  seems." 

Lord  Fordyce's  face  paled. 

"Does  that  mean  anything  sinister,  dearest?"  he 
demanded,  with  a  quiver  in  his  cultivated  voice.  "Sa- 
bine, you  would  tell  me,  would  you  not,  if  there  were 
anything  to  fear?" 

"I  do  not  myself  know  what  it  means — I  may  have 
some  news  to-morrow — let  us  forget  about  it  to-night. 
Oh!  I  want  to  be  happy  just  for  to-night,  Henry!" 
and  she  held  out  her  hand  again  pleadingly. 

"Indeed,  you  shall  be,  darling,"  and  splendid  and 
unselfish  gentleman  that  he  was,  he  crushed  down  his 
anguish,  and  used  all  his  clever  brain  to  divert  and 
entertain  her,  and  presently  all  the  women  went  up  to 
dress  for  dinner  and  the  ball,  and  Lord  Fordyce  found 
Michael  in  the  smoking-room.  He  had  really  a  deep 
affection  for  him ;  he  had  known  him  ever  since  he  was 
an  absolutely  fearless,  dare-devil  little  boy,  the  joy 
and  pride  of  his  father,  Henry's  old  friend,  and  in  spite 
of  the  full  ten  years'  difference  in  tlieir  ages,  they 
had  ever  been  closest  allies  until  their  break  at  Arran- 
stoun,  and  then  Michael's  five  years  abroad  had  made 
a  gap,  bridged  over  now  since  his  return.     Lord  For- 

187 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

dyce  felt  that  Michael's  intense  vitality  and  radiating 
magnetism  would  be  refreshing  in  the  depressed  state 
into  which  his  lady  love's  words  had  thrown  him,  and 
he  drew  him  over  with  him,  and  they  sat  down  in  two 
big  chairs  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  festive  groups — 
some  playing  bridge  or  billiards.  Michael  was  in  no 
gentle  temper,  and  Henry  was  the  last  person  he  wished 
to  talk  to.  He  knew  he  ought  not  to  have  come,  he 
knew  that  he  ought  to  tell  Henry  straight  out  and 
then  go  off  before  the  ball.  He  felt  he  was  behaving 
like  the  most  despicable  coward;  and  yet,  if  it  were 
possible  for  Henry  never  to  know  that  he,  Michael, 
was  Sabine's  husband,  it  would  save  his  friend  much 
pain.  He  was  smarting  under  Sabine's  insolent  dis- 
missal of  him,  and  burning  with  jealousy  over  that  wit- 
nessed caress,  the  violent  passions  of  his  race  were  surg- 
ing up  and  causing  a  devil  of  recklessness  to  show  in 
his  very  handsome  face.  Lord  Fordyce  saw  that  some- 
thing had  disturbed  him. 

"What's  up,  Michael,  old  boy?"  he  asked.  "I 
haven't  seen  you  look  so  like  Black  James  since  you  got 
Violet  Hatfield's  letter  and  did  not  see  how  you  could 
get  out  of  marrying  her." 

Black  James  was  a  famous  Arranstoun  of  the  Court 
of  James  IV  of  Scotland,  whose  exploits  had  been  the 
terror  and  admiration  of  the  whole  country,  and  who 
was  even  yet  a  byword  for  recklessness  and  savagery. 

Michael  laughed. 

188 


THE    ]\IAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

"Poor  old  Violet !"  he  said.  "She  will  soon  be  bring- 
ing out  her  daughter.  I  saw  her  the  other  day  in  Lon- 
don ;  she  cut  me  dead !" 

"That  was  an  escape !"  and  Henry  lit  a  cigar. 
"However,  as  you  know,  a  year  after  weeping  croco- 
dile tears  for  poor  Maurice,  she  married  young  Layard 
of  Balmayn.  So  all's  well  that  ends  well.  She  and 
Rose  have  never  spoken  since  the  scene  when  Violet 
read  in  the  Scotsman  that  you  had  got  married !" 

"Don't  let's  talk  of  it !"  returned  Mr.  Arranstoun. 
"The  Avhole  thought  of  marriage  and  matrimony  makes 
me  sick!" 

"Are  you  in  some  fresh  scrape?"  Henry  exclaimed. 

Michael  put  his  head  down  doggcdl}"-,  while  his  eyes 
flashed  and  he  bit  off  the  end  of  his  cigar. 

"Yes,  the  very  devil  of  a  hole — but  this  time  no  one 
can  help  me  with  advice  or  even  sympathy;  I  must  get 
out  of  the  tangle  myself." 

"I  am  awfully  sorry,  old  man." 

"It  is  my  own  fault,  that  is  what  hurts  the  most." 

"I  do  not  feel  particularly  brilliant  to-night  either," 
Henry  announced.  "The  divorce  proceedings  have 
not  apparently  been  commenced  in  America — and  noth- 
ing definite  can  be  settled.  I  do  not  understand  it 
quite.  I  always  thought  that  out  there  the  woman 
could  always  get  matters  manipulated  for  her,  and  get 
rid  of  the  man  when  she  wanted.  They  arc  so  very 
chivalrous  to  women,  American  men,  whatever  may  be 

189 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

their  other  sins.  Tliis  one  must  be  an  absolute 
swine." 

"Yes — does  Mrs.  Howard  feel  it  very  much?"  and 
Michael's  deep  voice  vibrated  strangely. 

"She  spoke  of  it  just  now.  Her  lawyer  arrives  from 
New  York  to-day  to  consult  with  her  what  is  best  next 
to  be  done." 

"And  she  never  told  you  a  thing  about  the  fellow, 
Henry?     How  very  strange  of  her,  isn't  it?" 

Lord  Fordyce's  fine,  gray  eyes  gleamed. 

*'Ah — Michael,  if  you  had  ever  loved  a  woman,  you 
would  know  that  when  you  really  do,  you  desire  to  trust 
her  to  the  uttermost.  Sabine  would  tell  me  and  offered 
to  at  once  if  I  wished,  but — it  all  upsets  her  so — I 
agree  with  her — it  is  much  happier  for  both  of  us  not 
to  talk  about  it.  Only  if  there  seems  to  be  some  hitch 
I  will  get  her  to  tell  me,  so  that  I  may  be  able  to  help 
her.  I  have  a  fairly  clear  judgment  generally — and 
may  see  some  points  she  and  Mr.  Parsons  have  neg- 
lected." 

Michael  gazed  into  the  fire — at  this  moment  his 
worst  enemy  might  have  pitied  him. 

"Supposing  anything  were  to  go  really  wrong, 
Henry,  it  would  cut  you  up  awfully,  eh?" 

And  if  Lord  Fordyce  had  not  been  so  preoccupied 
with  his  own  emotions,  he  would  have  seen  an  over- 
anxiety  on  the  face  of  his  friend. 

"I  believe  it  would  just  end  my  life,  Michael,"  he 

190 


THE    ]MAN    AND    THE    INIOMENT 

answered,  very  low.     "I  am  not  a  boy,  you  know,  to 
get  over  it  and  begin  again." 

Mr.  Arranstoun  bounded  from  his  chair. 

"Nothing  must  be  allowed  to  go  wrong,  then,  old 
man,"  he  exclaimed  almost  fiercely.  "Don't  you  fret. 
But,  by  Jove,  we  will  be  late  for  dinner !"  and  afraid  to 
trust  himself  to  say  another  word,  he  turned  to  one  of 
the  groups  near  and  at  last  got  from  the  room.  He 
did  not  go  up  to  his  own,  but  on  into  the  front  hall, 
and  so  out  into  the  night.  A  brisk  wind  was  blowing, 
and  the  moon,  a  young,  frosty  moon  was  bright.  He 
knew  the  place  well,  and  paced  a  stone  terrace  undis- 
turbed It  was  on  the  other  side  all  was  noise  and 
bustle,  where  the  large,  built  out  ball-room  stood. 

An  absolute  decision  must  be  come  to.  No  more 
shilly-shallying — he  had  thrown  the  dice  and  lost  and 
must  pay  the  stakes.  He  would  ask  her  to  dance  this 
niglit  and  then  get  speech  with  her  alone — discuss  what 
would  be  best  to  do  to  save  Henry,  and  then  on  the 
morrow  go  and  begin  proceedings  immediately. 

Meanwhile,  up  in  Moravia's  room,  Sabine  was  seated 
upon  the  white  shcep's-skin  rug  before  the  fire;  she 
was  wildly  excited  and  extremely  unhappy. 

The  sight  of  Michael  again  had  upset  all  her  fancied 
indifference,  and  shaken  her  poise ;  and  apart  from  this, 
the  situation  was  grotesque  and  unseemly.  She  could 
no  longer  suffer  it :  she  would  tell  Henry  the  whole 
truth  to-morrow  and  ask  him  what  she  must  do.     His 

191 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

love  almost  ten-ificd  her.  Wliat  awful  responsibility 
lay  in  her  hand?  But  civilization  commanded  her  to 
dress  in  her  best,  and  go  down  and  dance  gaily  and 
play  her  part  in  the  world. 

"Oh!  what  slaves  we  are,  Morri!"  she  exclaimed,  as 
though  speaking  her  thoughts  aloud,  for  the  remark 
had  nothing  to  do  with  what  the  Princess  had  said. 

Moravia,  who  was  lying  on  the  sofa  not  in  the  best 
of  moods  either,  answered  gloomily: 

"Yes,  slaves — or  savages.  The  truth  is,  we  are 
nearly  all  animals  more  or  less.  Some  are  caught  by 
wiles,  and  some  are  trapped,  and  some  revel  in  being 
captured — and  a  few — a  few  are  like  me — they  get 
away  as  a  bird  with  a  shot  in  its  wing." 

Sabine  was  startled — what  was  agitating  her  friend.'* 

"But  your  troubles  are  over,  Morri,  darling — your 
wings  are  strong  and  free !" 

"I  said  there  was  a  shot  in  one  of  them." 

Sabine  came  and  sat  upon  a  stool  beside  her,  and 
took  and  caressed  her  hand. 

"Something  has  hurt  you,  dearest,"  she  cooed,  rub- 
bing Moravia's  arm  with  her  velvet  cheek.  "What 
is  it?" 

"No,  I  am  not  hurt — ^I  am  only  cynical.  I  despise 
our  sex — most  of  us  are  just  primitive  savages  under- 
neath at  one  time  of  our  lives  or  another — we  adore 
the  strong  man  who  captures  us  in  spite  of  all  our 
struggles !" 

192 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

"Morrl !" 

"It  is  perfectly  true !  we  all  pass  through  it.  In  the 
beginning,  when  Girolamo  devoured  me  with  kisses  and 
raged  with  jealousy,  and  one  day  almost  beat  me,  I  ab- 
solutely worshipped  him ;  it  was  when  he  became  polite 
— and  then  yawned  that  my  misery  began.  You  will 
go  through  it,  Sabine,  if  you  have  not  already  done 
so.  It  seems  we  suffer  all  the  time,  because  when  that 
is  over  then  we  leani  to  appreciate  gentleness  and 
chivalry — and  probably  by  then  it  is  out  of  our  reach." 

"I  don't  believe  anything  is  out  of  our  i-each  if  we 
want  it  enough,"  and  Sabine  closed  her  firm  mouth. 

"Then  I  wonder  what  you  want,  Sabine — because  I 
know  you  do  not  really  want  Lord  Fordyce — he  repre- 
sents chivalry — and  I  don't  beheve  you  are  at  that 
stage  yet,  dearest." 

"What  stage  am  I  at,  then,  Morri.?" 

"The  one  when  you  want  a  master — you  have  mas- 
tered everything  yourself  up  to  now — but  the  moment 
will  come  to  you — and  then  you  will  be  fortunate,  per- 
haps, if  fate  keeps  the  man  away !" 

Sabine's  violet  eyes  grew  black  as  night — and  her 
little  nostrils  quivered. 

"I  know  nothing  of  passions,  Moravia,"  she  cried, 
and  threw  out  her  arms.  "I  have  only  dreamed  of 
them — imagined  them.  I  am  afraid  of  them — afraid 
to  feel  too  nnich.  Henry  will  be  a  haven  of  rest — the 
moment — can  never  conic  to  me." 

193 


THE    INIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

The  Princess  laughed  a  little  bitterly. 

"Then  let  us  dress,  darling,  and  go  down  and  out- 
shine all  these  dear,  dowdy  Englishwomen ;  and  while 
you  are  sipping  courtesy  and  gentleness  with  Lord  For- 
dyce,  I  shall  try  to  quaff  gloriously  attractive,  abor- 
iginal force  with  Mr.  Arranstoun — but  it  would  have 
been  more  suitable  to  our  characters  could  we  have 
changed  partners.     Now,  run  along!" 


CHAPTER    XVI 

^.OSE  FORSTER  had  felt  she  must  not  lure 
Mr.  Arranstoun  over  to  Ebbsworth  on  false 
pretences ;  he  was  a  very  much  sought  after 
young  man,  and  since  his  return  from  the  wilds  had 
been  very  difficult  to  secure,  and  therefore  it  was  her 
duty  to  give  liim  one  of  her  beautiful  Americans  at 
dinner.  The  Princess  was  ob^^ously  the  destiny  of  her 
husband  with  her  brother  Henry  upon  the  other  side, 
so  Michael  must  take  in  Mrs.  Howard.  Mr.  Arranstoun 
was  one  of  the  last  two  guests  to  assemble  in  the  great 
drawing-room  where  the  party  were  collected,  and  did 
not  hear  of  his  good  fortune  until  one  minute  before 
dinner  was  announced. 

Sabine  had  perhaps  never  looked  so  well  in  her  life. 
She  had  not  her  father's  nation's  love  of  splendid  jew- 
els, and  wore  none  of  any  kind.  Her  French  mother 
may  have  transmitted  to  her  some  wonderful  strain  of 
tastes  which  from  earliest  youth  had  seemed  to  guide  her 
into  selecting  the  most  beautiful  and  becoming  things 
without  great  knowledge.  Her  ugly  frocks  at  the  Con- 
vent had  been  a  penance,  and  ever  since  she  had  been 

195 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

free  and  rich  her  clothes   and  all  her  belongings  had 
been  marvels  of  distinction  and  simplicity. 

Moravia  was,  strictly  speaking,  far  more  beautiful, 
but  Sabine,  as  Henry  had  once  said,  had  "it." 

Her  manner  was  just  what  it  ought  to  have  been,  as 
she  placed  her  hand  upon  her  husband's  arm — perfectly 
indifferent  and  gracious,  and  so  they  went  in  to  din- 
ner. 

jNIichael  had  hardly  hoped  to  have  this  chanc€  and 
meant  to  make  the  most  of  it.  At  dinner  before  a  ball 
was  not  the  place  to  have  a  serious  discussion  about 
divorce,  but  was  for  Ughter  and  more  frivolous  con- 
versation, and  he  felt  his  partner  would  be  no  unskilled 
adversary  with  the  foils. 

"So  you  have  got  this  far  north,  Mrs.  Howard,"  he 
began  by  saying,  making  a  slight  pause  over  the  name. 
"I  wish  I  could  persuade  you  to  come  over  the  border 
to  ArranstouD ;  it  is  only  thirty-five  miles  from  here, 
and  really  merits  your  attention.*' 

"I  have  heard  it  is  a  most  interesting  place,"  Sabine 
returned,  suddenly  experiencing  the  same  wild  delight 
in  the  game  as  she  had  done  in  the  garden  at  Heron ac. 
"Have  you  ghosts  there.?  We  do  not  have  such  things 
in  France." 

"Yes,  there  are  a  number  of  ghosts — ^but  the  most  per- 
sistent and  disconcerting  one  is  a  very  young  girl  who 
nightly  falls  through  a  secret  door  into  my  room." 
"How  romantic !    What  is  she  like.?"    Two  violet  eyes 

196 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    INIOMENT 

looked  up  at  him  full  of  that  mischief  which  lies  in 
the  orbs  of  a  kitten  when  it  contemplates  some  fearsome 
crime,   and  has  to   appear  especially  innocent. 

Michael  thrilled.  If  she  had  that  expression  he  was 
quite  ready  to  follow  the  lead. 

She  is  perfectly  enchanting — shall  I  tell  you  exactly 
what  she  wears — and  her  every  feature  and  the  color  of 
her  eyes?  The  wraith  so  materializes  that  I  can  de- 
scribe it  as  accurately  as  I  could  describe  you  sitting 
next  me." 

"Please  do." 

"She  is  about  five  foot  seven  tall — I  mean  she  has 
grown  as  tall  as  that — when  she  first  appeared  she 
could  not  have  been  taller  than  five  foot  five.*' 

"How  strange!" 

"Yes,  isn't  it — well,  she  has  the  most  divine  figure, 
quite  slight  and  yet  not  scraggy — you  know  the  kind, 
I  loathe  them  scraggy !" 

"I  hate  fat  people." 

"But  she  isn't  fat.  I  tell  you  she  is  too  sweet.  She 
has  a  round  baby  face  with  the  loveliest  violet  eyes  in 
the  world  and  such  a  skin  ! — like  a  velvet  rose  petal !" 
His   unabashed   regard   penetrated  Sabine  who   smiled 

slyly. 

*'You  don't  mean  to  say  you  can  see  all  these  material 
things  in  a  ghost !"  she  cried  with  an  enchanting  air  of 
incredulity. 

"Perfectly — I  have  not  half  finished  yet.     I  have  not 

197 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

told  you  about  her  mouth — it  is  very  curved  and  full 
and  awfully  red — and  there  is  the  most  adorable  dimple 
up  at  one  side  of  it,  I  am  sure  the  people  in  the  ghost 
world  that  she  meets  must  awfully  want  to  kiss  it.'* 

Sabine  frowned.  This  was  rather  too  intimate  a  de- 
scription, but  bashfulness  or  diffidence  she  knew  were  not 
among  Mr.  Arranstoun's  qualities — or  defects. 

"I  think  I  am  tired  of  hearing  what  this  ghost  looks 
like,  I  want  to  know  what  does  she  do  ?  Aren't  you  pet- 
rified with  fright?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  Michael  told  her,  "but  you  will 
just  have  to  hear  about  her  hair — when  it  comes  down 
it  is  like  lovely  bronze  waves — and  her  little  feet,  too — 
they  are  exquisite  enough  in  shoes  and  stockings,  but 
without !" 

Here  he  had  the  grace  to  look  at  his  fish  which  was 
just  being  handed. 

A  flush  as  pink  as  the  pinkest  rose  came  into  Sabine's 
cheeks — he  was  perfectly  disgraceful  and  this  was  of 
course  in  shocking  taste — but  when  he  glanced  up  again 
his  attractive  blue  eyes  had  her  late  look  of  an  innocent 
kitten's  in  them  and  he  said  in  an  angelic  tone: 

"She  has  not  a  fault,  you  may  believe  me,  and  she 
jumps  up  after  the  fall  into  the  room,  and  sits  in  one 
of  my  big  chairs!" 

"Does  she  scold  you  for  your  sins  as  denizens  of  an- 
other sphere  ought  to  do?"  Mrs.  Howard  was  con- 
strained to  ask. 

198 


THE  :man  and  the  moment 

"No — she  is  a  little  angel  and  always  tells  me  that 
sins  are  forgiven." 

"Does  she  come  often?" 

"Every  single  evening  when  I  am  alone — and — some- 
times, she  melts  into  my  arms  and  stays  with  me  all 
night.  Binko —  All! — you  remember  Binko!" —  for 
Sabine's  face  had  suddenly  lit  up — and  at  this  passion- 
ate joy  and  emotion  flooded  Michael's  and  they  both 
stopped  dead  short  in  their  talk  and  Sabine  took  a 
quick  breath  that  was  almost  a  gasp. 

"I  remember — ^notliing,"  she  said  very  fast,  "how 
should  I?  The  girl  whose  ghost  you  are  speaking  of 
ceased  to  exist  five  years  ago — but  I — recognize  the 
portrait — I  knew  her  in  life — and  she  told  me  about 
the  dog — he  had  fat  paws  and  quantities  of  wrinkles,  I 
think  she  said." 

"Yes,  that  is  Binko !"  and  his  master  beamed  rap- 
turously. "He  is  the  most  beautifully  ugly  bull-dog  in 
the  world,  but  the  poor  old  boy  is  getting  on,  he  is  seven 
years  old  now.  Would  not  you  like  to  see  him — again 
— I  mean  from  what  you  have  heard !" 

"I  love  animals,  especially  dogs — but  tell  me,  is  he 
not  afraid  of  the  ghost?" 

Michael  drank  some  champagne,  even  under  all  his 
unhappiness  he  was  greatly  enjoying  himself.  "Not  at 
all,  he  loves  her  to  come  as  much  as  I  do.  She  haunts 
— both  my  rooms — and  the  chapel,  too — she  wears  a 
white  dress  and  has  some  stophanotis  in  her  hair — and 

199 


THE    ]\IAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

I  am  somehow  compelled  to  enact  a  whole  scene  with 
her — there  before  the  altar  with  all  the  candles  blaz- 
ing— and  it  seems  as  if  I  put  a  ring  upon  her  hand — 
like  the  one  you  are  wearing  there — she  has  lovely 
hands." 

The  color  began  to  die  out  of  Sabine's  cheeks  and 
a  strange  look  grew  in  her  eyes.  The  footmen  were 
removing  the  fish  plates,  but  she  was  oblivious  of  that. 
Then  the  tones  of  Michael's  voice  changed  and  grew 
deeper. 

"Soon  all  the  vision  fades  into  gloom,  and  the  only 
thing  I  can  see  is  that  she  is  tearing  my  ring  off  and 
throwing  it  away  into  the  darkness." 

"And  do  you  try  to  prevent  her  from  doing  this?" 
Sabine  hardly  spoke  above  a  whisper,  while  she  ab- 
sently refused  an  entree  which  was  being  handed.  To 
talk  of  ghosts  and  such  like  things  had  been  easy 
enough,  but  she  had  not  bargained  for  him  turning  the 
conversation  into  one  of  serious  meaning.  She  could 
not,  however,  prevent  herself  from  continuing  It,  she 
had  never  been  so  interested  in  her  life. 

"No — I  cannot  do  that — there  is  an  archangel  stand- 
ing between." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Howard's  other  neighbor 
claimed  her  attention ;  he  was  a  man  to  whom  she  had 
been  talking  at  tea,  and  who  was  already  filled  with  ad- 
miration  for  her. 

Michael  had  time  for  breathing  space,  and  to  con- 

200 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOIMENT 

sider  whether  the  course  he  was  pursuing  was  wisdom 
or  not.  That  it  was  madlj  exciting,  he  knew — but 
where  was  it  leading  to  ?  What  did  she  mean  ?  Did  she 
feel  at  all?  or  was  she  one  of  the  clever  coquettes  of 
her  nation,  a  more  refined  Daisy  Van  der  Horn — just 
going  to  lead  him  on  into  showing  his  emotion  for 
her,  and  then  going  to  punish  and  humiliate  him?  He 
must  put  a  firmer  guard  over  himself,  for  propinquity 
and  the  night  were  exciting  influence,  and  the  cruel 
fact  remained  that  it  was  too  late  in  any  case.  Hen- 
ry's words  this  afternoon  had  cast  the  die  forever ;  he 
— ]Michael — could  not  for  any  personal  happiness  be 
so  hideously  cruel  to  his  old  friend.  Better  put  a  bullet 
through  his  own  brain  than  that.  Whatever  should  de- 
velop on  this  night,  and  he  meant  to  continue  the  con- 
versation as  it  should  seem  best  to  him,  and  if  she  fenced 
too  daringly  with  him  to  take  the  button  off  the  foils 
— but  whatever  should  come  of  it  it  should  not  be 
allowed  to  alter  his  intention  of  to-morrow  instruct- 
ing his  lawyers  in  Edinburgh  to  begin  divorce  proceed- 
ings at  once.  He  was  like  a  gambler  who  has  lost  his 
last  stake,  and  who  still  means  to  take  what  joy  of  life 
he  can  before  the  black  to-morrow  dawns.  So,  in  the 
ten  minutes  or  so  while  Sabine  had  turned  from  him,  he 
laid  his  plans.  He  would  see  how  much  he  could  make 
her  feel.  He  would  dance  with  her  later  and  then  say 
a  final  farewell.  If  she  were  hurt,  too,  he  must  not 
care — she  had  made  the  barrier  of  her  own  free  will. 

201 


THE    ]VIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

The  person  who  was  blameless  and  should  not  suffer 
was  Henry.  Then  he  began  to  look  at  Sabine  fur- 
tively, and  caught  the  outline  of  her  sweet,  averted 
head.  How  irresistibly  attractive  she  was !  The  exact 
type  he  admii'ed;  not  too  intellectual-looking,  just  soft 
and  round  and  babyish ;  there  was  one  little  curl  on  her 
snowy  nuque  that  he  longed  to  kiss  there  and  then. 
What  a  time  she  was  talking  to  tlie  other  man !  He 
would  not  bear  it! 

And  Sabine,  while  she  apparently  listened  to  her 
neighbor,  had  not  the  remotest  idea  of  what  he  said. 
The  whole  of  her  being  was  tlirilling  with  some  strange 
and  powerful  emotion,  which  almost  made  her  feel  faint 
— she  could  not  have  swallowed  a  morsel  of  food,  and 
simply  played  with  her  fork. 

At  the  first  possible  pause,  Michael  addressed  her 
again : 

"Since  you  knew  the  lady  in  life  who  is  now  my 
ghost — and  she  told  you  of  Binko — did  she  not  say 
anything  else  about  her  visit  to  Arranstoun  or  its 
master?" 

"Nothing — it  was  all  apparently  a  blank  horror,  and 
she  probably  wanted  to  forget  it  and  him." 

"He  made  some  kind  of  an  impression  upon  her,  then 
— good  or  bad,  since  she  wanted  to  forget  him — " 
eagerly. 

Sabine  admitted  to  herself  that  the  umpires  might 
have  called  ^Houche'^  for  tliis. 

202 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

"It  would  seem  so,"  she  allowed,  with  what  she 
thought  was  generosity. 

"That  is  better  than  only  creating  indifference." 

"Yes — the  indifference  came  later." 

"One  expected  that;  but  there  was  a  time,  you  have 
inferred,  when  she  felt  something.  Wliat  was  it.?  Can't 
you  tell  me?" 

Excitement  was  rising  high  now  in  both  of  them,  and 
the  grouse  on  their  plates  remained  almost  untasted. 

"At  first,  she  did  not  know  herself,  I  think ;  but  after- 
wards, when  she  came  to  understand  things,  she  felt  re- 
sentment and  hate,  and  it  taught  her  to  appreciate  chiv- 
alry and  gentleness." 

Michael  almost  cried  "touchiT  aloud. 

"He  was  an  awful  brute — the  owner  of  Arranstoun,  I 
suppose  .'*" 

"Yes — apparently — and  one  who  broke  a  contract 
and  rather  glorified  in  the  fact." 

Michael  laughed  a  little  bitterly,  as  he  answered : 

"All  men  are  brutes  when  the  moment  favors  them, 
and  when  a  woman  is  sufficiently  attractive.  We  will 
admit  that  the  owner  of  Arranstoun  was  a  brute." 

"He  was  a  man  who,  I  understand,  lived  only  for 
himself  and  for  his  personal  gratification,"  Mrs.  How- 
ard told  him. 

"Poor  devil !  He  perhaps  had  not  h;id  much  cliancc. 
You  should  be  charitable !" 

Sabine  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  tk-it  engaging  way 

203 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

she  had.  She  had  hardly  looked  up  again  at  Michael 
since  the  beginning,  the  exigencies  of  the  dinner-table 
being  excuse  enough  for  not  turning  her  head ;  but  his 
eyes  often  devoured  her  fascinating,  irregular  profile  to 
try  and  discover  her  real  meaning,  but  without  suc- 
cess. 

*'He  was  probably  one  of  those  people  who  are  more 
or  less  like  animals,  and  just  live  because  they  are 
alive,"  Sabine  went  on.  "Who  are  educated  because 
they  happen  to  have  been  born  in  the  upper  classes — 
Who  drink  and  eat  and  sport  and  game  because  it  gives 
their  senses  pleasure  so  to  do — but  who  see  no  further 
good  in  things." 

"A  low  wretch  !'* 

"Yes — more  or  less. 

Michael's  eyes  were  flasliing  now — and  she  did  peep 
at  him,  when  he  said: 

"But  if  the  original  of  the  ghost  had  stayed  with 
him,  she  might  have  been  able  to  change  this  base  view 
of  life — she  could  have  elevated  him." 

Sabine  shook  her  head. 

**No,  she  was  too  young  and  too  Inexperienced,  and 
he  had  broken  all  her  ideals,  absolutely  stunned  and 
annihilated  her  whole  vista  of  the  future.  There  was 
no  other  way  but  flight.  She  had  to  reconstruct  her 
soul  alone." 

"You  do  not  ask  me  what  became  of  the  owner  of 
Arranstoun — or  what  he  did  with  his  life." 

204 


THE    MAX    AND    THE    MOMENT 

"I  know  he  went  to  Cliina — but  the  matter  does  not 
interest  me.  There  he  probabl}^  continued  to  live  and 
to  kill  other  things — ^to  seize  what  he  wanted  and  get 
some  physical  joy  out  of  existence  as  usual." 

A  look  of  pain  now  quenched  the  fire. 

"You  are  verj^  cruel,"  he  said. 

"The  owner  of  Arranstoun  was  very  cruel." 

"He  knows  it  and  is  deeply  repentant;  but  he  was 
and  is  only  a  very  ordinary  man." 

"No,  a  savage." 

"A  savage  then,  if  you  will — and  one  dangerous  to 
provoke  too  far ;"  the  fire  blazed  again.  "And  what  do 
you  suppose  your  friend  learned  in  those  five  years  of 
men — after  she  had  ceased  to  exist  as  the  owner  of  Ar- 
ranstoun knew  her?" 

Sabine  laughed,  but  there  was  no  mirtli  in  the  sound. 

"Of  men  !  That  they  are  like  children,  desiring  only 
the  toys  that  are  out  of  reach,  wasting  their  souls  upon 
what  they  cannot  obtain  and  valuing  not  at  all  the 
gifts  of  the  gods  which  arc  in  their  own  possession." 

"\Vliat  a  cynical  view  !" 

"Is  it  not  a  true  one.''" 

"Perhaps — in  some  cases — In  mine  certainly  ;  only  I 
have  generally  managed  to  obtain  what  I  wanted." 

"Then  it  may  be  a  new  experience  for  you  to  find 
there  was  one  thing  which  was  out  of  your  reach." 

He  bent  forward  eagerly  and  asked,  with  a  catch  in 
his  breath: 

205 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

"And  that  was ?" 

*'The  soul  of  a  woman — shall  we  say — that  some- 
thing wliich  no  brute  force  can  touch." 

The  fencing  bout  was  over,  the  foils  were  laid  aside, 
and  grim  earnest  was  in  Michael's  voice  now — modu- 
lated by  civilization  into  that  tone  which  does  not  carry 
beyond  one's  neighbor  at  a  dinner  party. 

"Your  soul — Sabine — that  is  the  only  thing  which 
interests  me,  and  I  was  never  able  to  touch  your  soul? 
That  is  not  true,  as  you  know —  How  dare  you  say  it 
to  me.     There  was  one  moment " 

"Hush,"  she  whispered,  growing  very  white.  "You 
must  not — ^you  shall  not  speak  to  me  so.  You  had  no 
right  to  come  here.  No  right  to  talk  to  me  at  all — it 
is  traitorous — ^we  are  both  traitors  to  Lord  Fordyce, 
who  is  a  noble  gentleman  above  suspecting  us  of  such 
wiles." 

And  at  that  moment,  through  a  gap  in  the  flowers 
of  the  long  table,  they  both  saw  Henry's  gray  eyes 
fixed  upon  them  with  a  rather  questioning  surprise — and 
then  Mrs.  Forster  gave  the  signal  to  the  ladies,  and 
Sabine  with  the  others  swept  from  the  room,  leaving 
Michael  quivering  with  pain  and  emotion. 

As  for  Sabine,  she  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

During  dinner,  Moravia  had  had  an  interesting  con- 
versation with  Henry.  They  had  spoken  of  all  sorts 
of  things  and  eventually,  toward  the  end  of  it,  of 
Sabine. 

206 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

"She  is  the  strangest  character,  Lord  Fordjce," 
Moravia  said.  "She  is  more  like  a  boy  than  a  girl  in 
some  ways.  She  absolutely  rules  everyone.  When  we 
were  children,  she  and  all  the  others  used  to  call  me  the 
mother  in  our  games,  but  it  was  really  Sabine  who  set- 
tled everything.  She  was  always  the  brigand  captain. 
She  got  us  into  all  the  mischief  of  clandestine  feasts 
and  other  rule  breaking — and  all  the  Sisters  simply 
adored  her,  and  the  Mother  Superior,  too,  and  they 
used  to  let  her  off,  no  matter  what  she  did,  with  not 
half  our  punishments.  She  was  the  wildest  madcap  you 
ever  saw." 

Henry  was,  of  course,  deeply  interested. 

"She  is  sufficiently  grave  and  dignified  now!"  he 
responded  in  admiration,  his  worshiping  eyes  turned  in 
Sabine's  direction ;  but  it  was  only  when  she  moved  in  a 
certain  way  that  he  could  see  her,  through  the  flowers. 
IMichacl  he  saw  plainly  all  the  time,  and  perceived  that 
he  was  not  boring  himself. 

"Her  character,  then,  would  seem  to  have  been  rather 
like  my  friend's,  Michael  Arranstoun's,"  he  remarked. 
"They  have  both  such  an  astonishing,  penetrating  vi- 
tality, one  would  almost  know  when  cither  of  them  was 
in  the  room  even  if  one  could  not  sec  them." 

"He  is  awfully  good-looking  and  attractive,  your 
friend,"  IVIoravia  returned.  "I  have  never  seen  such 
bold,  devil-may-care  blue  eyes.  I  suppose  women  adore 
him ;  I  personally  have  got  over  my  interest  in  that 

207 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

sort  of  man.     I  much  prefer  courteous  and  more  diffi- 
dent creatures." 

Lord  Fordyce  smiled. 

"Yes,  I  believe  women  spoil  Michael  terribly,  and  he 
is  perfectly  ruthless  with  them,  too;  but  I  understand 
that  they  Hke  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Yes — most  of  them  do.  It  is  the  simple  demonstra- 
tion of  strength  which  allures  them.  You  see,  man  was 
meant  to  be  strong,"  and  Moravia  laughed  softly, 
"wasn't  he?  He  was  not  designed  in  the  scheme  of 
things  to  be  a  soft,  silky-voiced  creature  like  Cranley 
Beaton,  for  instance — talking  gossip  and  handing  tea- 
cups ;  he  was  just  intended  to  be  a  fierce,  great  hunter, 
rushing  round  killing  his  food  and  capturing  his  mate ; 
and  women  have  remained  such  primitive  unspoiled  dar- 
lings, they  can  still  be  dominated  by  these  lovely  qual- 
ities— when  they  have  a  chance  to  see  them.  But,  alas ! 
half  the  men  have  become  so  awfully  civilized,  they 
haven't  a  scrap  of  this  delightful,  aboriginal  force  left !" 

"I  thought  you  said  you  personally  preferred  more 
diffident  creatures,"  and  Lord  Fordyce  smiled  whimsi- 
cally. 

"So  I  do  now — I  said  I  had  got  over  my  interest  in 
these  savages — but,  of  course,  I  liked  them  once,  as  we 
all  do.  It  is  one  of  our  fatal  stages  that  we  have  to 
pass  through,  like  snakes  changing  their  skins ;  and  it 
makes  many  of  us  during  the  time  lay  up  for  ourselves 
all  sorts  of  regrets." 

208 


THE    MAX    AND    THE    :\10MEXT 

Henry  sought  eagerly  through  the  flowers  his  be- 
loved's face.  Had  she,  too,  passed  through  this  stage 
— or  was  it  to  come?  He  asked  himself  this  question  a 
little  anxiously,  and  then  he  remembered  the  words  of 
Pere  Anselme,  and  an  unrest  grew  in  his  heart.  The 
Princess  saw  that  some  shadow  had  gathered  upon  his 
brow,  and  guessed,  since  she  knew  that  his  thoughts  in 
general  turned  that  way,  that  it  must  be  something  to 
do  with  Sabine — so  she  said : 

"Sabine  and  I  have  come  through  our  happinesses,  I 
trust,  since  Convent  days — and  what  we  must  hope  for 
now  is  an  Indian  summer." 

Henry  turned  rather  wistful  eyes  to  her. 

"An  Indian  summer!"  he  exclaimed.  "A  peaceful, 
beautiful  warmth  after  the  riotous  joy  of  the  red  blaz- 
ing June !    Tell  me  about  it.''" 

^Moravia  sighed  softly. 

"It  is  the  land  where  the  souls  who  have  gone  through 
the  fire  of  pain  live  In  peace  and  quiet  happiness,  con- 
tent to  glow  a  little  before  the  frosts  of  age  come  to 
quench  all  passion  and  pleasure." 

Henry  looked  doym  at  the  grapes  on  his  plate. 

"There  is  autumn  afterwards,"  he  reasoned,  "which 
is  full  of  richness  and  glorious  fruit.  May  we  not  look 
forward  to  that.^  But  yet  I  know  that  we  all  deceive 
ourselves  and  live  in  what  may  be  only  a  fool's  para- 
dise"— and  then  it  was  that  he  caught  sight  of  his 
adored,  as  she  bent  forward  after  her  rebuke  to  'M\- 

209 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

chael — and  with  a  burst  of  feeling  in  his  controlled 
voice,  he  cried :  "But  who  would  forego  his  fool's  para- 
dise !" — and  then  he  took  in  the  fact  that  some  unusual 
current  of  emotion  must  have  been  passing  between 
the  two — and  his  heart  gave  a  great  bound  of  fore- 
boding. 

For  the  keenness  of  his  perceptions  and  his  honesty 
of  judgment  made  him  see  that  they  were  strangely 
suited  to  one  another — ^his  darling  and  his  friend — so 
strong  and  vital  and  young. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

^^^^^HE  ball  was  going  splendidly  and  everyone 
■  ^  J    seemed  to  be  in  wild  form.    Sabine  had  danced 

^^^^  with  an  excitement  in  her  veins  which  she  could 
not  control.  Had  there  been  no  music  or  lights,  she 
might  just  have  felt  frightfully  disturbed  and  unhappy, 
but  as  it  was  she  was  only  conscious  of  excitement. 
Lord  Fordyce  was  above  showing  jealousy,  and  was 
content  that  she  seemed  to  be  enjoying  herself,  and  did 
not  appear  unwilling  to  return  to  him  quite  frequently 
and  walk  about  the  room  or  sit  down. 

"You  are  looking  so  supremely  bewitching,  my  dar- 
ling," he  told  her.  "I  feel  it  is  selfish  of  me  to  keep 
you  away  from  the  gay  dances,  you  are  so  young  and 
sweet.  I  want  you  to  enjoy  yourself.  Have  you  not 
danced  with  Michael  Arranstoun  yet?  I  saw  you  were 
getting  on  with  him  splendidly  at  dinner — he  used  to 
be  a  great  dancer  before  he  went  off  to  foreign  parts." 

"No,  I  have  not  spoken  to  him  even,"  she  answered, 
with  what  indifference  she  could. 

"What  was  he  saying  just  before  you  left  the  dining- 
room  which  made  you  look  so  haughty,  dearest?     He 

211 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

was  not  impertinent  to  jou,  I  hope,"  and  Henry 
frowned  a  little  at  the  thought. 

Sabine  played  with  her  fan — she  was  feeling  inexpres- 
sibly mean. 

"No — not  in  the  least — we  were  discussing  someone 
we  had  both  known — ^long  ago — she  is  dead  now.  I 
may  have  been  a  Httle  annoyed  at  what  he  said.  Oh !  is 
that  a  Scotch  reel  they  are  going  to  begin?" 

How  glad  she  was  of  this  diversion !  She  knew  she 
had  been  capricious  with  Lord  Fordyce  once  or  twice 
during  the  evening.  She  was  greatly  perturbed.  Oh! 
Why  had  she  not  had  the  coiirage  to  be  her  usual,  hon- 
est self,  and  have  told  him  immediately  at  Heronac  who 
her  husband  really  was.  She  was  in  a  false  position, 
ashamed  of  her  deceit  and  surrounded  by  a  net-work  of 
acted  lies ;  and  all  through  everything  there  was  a  pas- 
sionate longing  to  speak  to  Michael  again,  and  to  be 
near  him  once  more  as  at  dinner.  She  had  been  con- 
scious of  everything  that  he  did — of  whom  he  had  danced 
with — ]Moravia  for  several  times — and  now  she  knew  that 
he  was  not  in  the  ball-room. 

Nothing  could  exceed  Henry's  gentleness  and  good- 
ness to  her.  He  watched  her  moods  and  put  up  with 
her  caprices ;  that  something  unusual  had  disturbed  her 
he  felt,  but  what  it  could  be  he  was  unable  to  guess. 

Sabine  was  aware  that  other  women  were  envying  her 
for  the  attention  showered  upon  her  by  this  much 
sought  after  man.     She  tried  to  assure  herself  how  for- 

212 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    M0:\1ENT 

tunate  she  was,  and  now  got  Henry  to  tell  her  once 
more  of  things  about  his  home.  It  was  in  the  fairest 
part  of  Kent,  and  they  had  often  talked  of  the  won- 
derful garden  they  would  have  in  that  fertile  country 
sheltered  from  all  wind,  and  she  knew  that  as  soon  as 
the  divorce  was  over,  she  and  Moravia  would  go  and 
stay  there  and  look  over  it  all,  and  meet  his  mother, 
which  meeting  had  not  yet  been  arranged.  For  some 
unknown  reason  nothing  would  induce  her  to  go  now. 

"I  would  rather  see  it  for  the  first  time,  Henry,  when 
I  am  engaged  to  you.  Now  I  should  be  an  ordinary 
visitor — can't  you  understand?" 

And  he  had  said  that  he  could.  It  always  thrilled 
him  when  she  appeared  to  take  an  interest  in  his  home. 

They  talked  now  about  it — and  how  he  would  so 
love  her  to  choose  her  o\vti  rooms  and  have  them  ar- 
ranged as  she  liked.  Then  he  made  pictures  of  their 
life  together  there,  and  as  he  spoke  her  heart  seemed  to 
sink  and  become  heavier  every  moment,  until  at  last 
she  could  bear  no  more. 

It  was  about  two  dances  before  supper,  into  which 
she  had  promised  to  go  with  him.  Slic  would  get  away 
to  her  room  now  and  be  alone  until  then.  She  must 
pull  herself  together  and  act  with  common  sense. 

She  told  him  that  she  had  to  settle  her  hair,  which 
had  become  disarranged,  and  saying  he  would  wait  for 
her  he  left  her  at  the  foot  of  the  smaller  staircase,  which 
led  in  a  roundabout  way  to  her  and  Moravia's  rooms. 

213 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

She  had  not  wanted  to  pass  through  the  great  hall 
where  quantities  of  people  were  sitting  out.  She  was 
just  crossing  the  corridor  where  the  bachelors  were 
lodged,  when  she  almost  ran  into  the  arms  of  Michael 
Arranstoun. 

He  stopped  short  and  apologized — and  then  he  said : 

"I  was  coming  to  find  you — there  is  something  I 
must  say  to  you.  Mrs.  Forster's  sitting-room  is  close 
here — will  you  come  with  me  in  there  for  a  moment ;  we 
can  be  alone." 

Sabine  hesitated.  She  looked  up  at  him,  so  tall  and 
masterful  and  astonishingly  handsome — and  then  she 
obeyed  him  meekly,  and  he  led  the  way  into  a  cosy  little 
room  unlit  except  for  a  glowing  mass  of  coals. 

Michael  turned  on  one  electric  lamp,  and  they  both 
went  over  to  the  chimney  piece. 

Intense  excitement  and  emotion  filled  them,  but  while 
he  tried  to  search  her  face  with  his  passionate  eyes, 
she  looked  into  the  fire  with  lowered  head. 

Then  he  spoke  almost  fiercely : 

"I  cannot  try  to  guess  what  caused  you  to  pretend 
you  did  not  recognize  me  when  we  met  at  Heronac. 
That  first  false  step  has  created  all  this  hopeless  tangle. 
I  will  not  judge  you,  but  only  blame  my  own  weakness 
in  falling  in  with  your  plan."  He  clasped  his  hands 
together  rather  wildly.  "I  was  so  stunned  with  sur- 
prise to  see  you,  and  overcome  with  the  knowledge  that 
I  had  just   given   Henry   my   word   of   honor   that   I 

214 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

would  not  interfere  with  him,  or  make  love  to  the  lady 
we  were  going  to  see — a  Mrs.  Howard,  who  was  mar- 
ried to  a  ruffian  of  an  American  husband  shut  up  in  a 
madhouse  or  liome  for  inebriates !  My  God !  Lies  from 
the  very  beginning,"  and  he  gave  a  little  laugh.  "I 
had  forgotten  for  the  moment  that  you  had  said  you 
would  call  yourself  by  that  name,  but  I  remembered  it 
afterwards.  You  had  not  decided  if  you  would  be  a 
widow — do  you  recollect? — and  you  wanted  a  coronet 
for  your  handkerchiefs  and  note-paper!" 

Sabine  quivered  under  the  lash  of  his  scorn. 

"You  maddened  me  that  afternoon  and  at  dinner, 
too,"  he  went  on,  "and  I  made  resolutions  and  then  broke 
them.  But  each  time  I  did,  I  was  filled  with  remorse 
and  contrition  about  Henry — and  I  am  ashamed  to 
confess  it,  I  was  madly  jealous,  too.  At  last,  I  saw  j^ou 
in  the  garden  together  and  knew  I  ought  to  go  at 
once." 

Here  his  voice  broke  a  little,  and  he  unclasped  his 
hands.  She  raised  her  head  defiantly  now,  and  flashed 
back  at  him : 

"I  understand  you  had  admitted  to  being  a  dog  in 
the  manger — you  were  always  an  animal  of  sorts!" 

This  told,  he  grew  paler,  and  into  his  blue  eyes  there 
came  a  look  of  pain. 

"You  have  a  perfect  right  to  say  that  to  me  if  you 
choose ;  it  is  probably  true.  I  am  a  very  strong  man 
with  tremendous  passions  which  have  always  been  in  my 

215 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

race;  but  I  am  not  altogether  a  brute — because, 
although  I  want  you  myself  with  more  intensity  than 
I  have  ever  wanted  anything  in  my  life — I  am  going 
to  give  you  up  to  Henry.  I  have  been  through  hell — 
ever  since  I  came  from  France.  I  have  been  weak,  too, 
and  could  not  face  the  final  wrench — but  I  am  deter- 
mined at  last  to  do  what  is  straight,  and  to-morrow 
I  will  instruct  my  lawyers  to  begin  proceedings,  and 
I  suppose  in  two  months  or  less  you  will  be  free." 

Sabine  grew  white  and  cold — her  voice  was  hardly 
audible  as  she  asked,  looking  up  at  him : 

"What  made  you  come  here  to-night?" 

He  took  a  step  nearer  to  her,  while  he  reciasped  his 
hands,  as  though  he  feared  that  he  might  be  tempted 
to  touch  her. 

"I  came — because  I  wanted  to  see  you  so  that  I  could 
not  stay  away — I  came  because  I  wished  to  convince 
myself  again  that  you  loved  Henry,  so  that  there  could 
be  no  shadow  of  uncertainty  in  what  I  intended  to  do." 

"Well?" 

"I  saw  that,  whether  you  love  him  or  not,  you  desire 
that  I  shall  think  that  you  do — and  so  at  dinner  I 
played  for  my  own  pleasure,  the  die  being  cast,  for 
something  else  had  occurred  before  dinner  which  makes 
it  of  no  consequence  to  my  decision  whether  you  do 
or  do  not  love  him  now.  It  is  Henry's  great  love  for 
you  which  is  the  factor,  because  to  part  from  you  he 
says  would  end  his  life.    I  could  not  commit  the  fright- 

216 


THE    JNIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

ful  cruelty  and  dishonor  of  upsetting  his  plans,  since 
you  are  originall}'^  to  blame  for  concealing  the  truth 
from  him,  and  I  am  to  blame  for  abetting  you.  He 
trusts  us  both  as  you  said." 

Sabine  was  trembling ;  her  whole  fabric  of  peace  and 
happiness  in  the  future  seemed  to  be  falling  to  pieces 
like  a  pack  of  cards. 

She  could  only  look  at  IMichael  with  piteous  violet 
eves  out  of  which  all  the  defiance  had  gone.  Her  slen- 
der figure  swayed  a  little,  and  she  leaned  against  the 
mantelpiece. 

"My  God!"  he  said,  with  a  fresh  clenching  of  his 
strong  hands,  "I  would  not  have  believed  I  could  have 
suffered  so.  As  it  is  the  last  time  wc  shall  ever  talk 
to  one  another  perhaps — I  want  you  to  know  about 
things — to  hear  it  all.  I  would  like  to  ask  you  again 
to  forgive  me  for  long  ago,  but  I  suppose  you  feel 
that  is  past  forgiveness.?"  His  face  had  a  look  of 
pleading ;  then  he  went  on  as  she  did  not  respond.  "If 
you  had  not  left  me,  I  would  soon  have  made  you  for- 
get that  you  had  been  angry,  as  I  thought  indeed  I 
had  already  done  when  you  seemed  to  be  contented  at 
least  in  my  arms.  But  I  would  have  caressed  you  into 
complete  forgetfulness  in  time — "  here  his  voice  vi- 
brated with  a  deep  note  of  tenderness,  which  thrilled 
her — but  yd  she  could  not  speak. 

"And  what  had  begun  just  in  mad  passion  would  have 
grown  into  real  love  between  us — for  we  were  made  for 

217 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

one  another  Sabine — did  you  never  think  of  that? — just 
the  same  sort  of  natures — vigorous  and  all  aHve  and 
passionate,  with  the  same  joy  of  life  in  our  blood.  We 
would  have  been  supremely  happy.  But  I  was  so  fright- 
fully arrogant  in  those  days,  and  when  I  spoke  I  was 
deadly  ashamed  of  myself,  and  then  furious  with  you 
for  daring  to  defy  me  and  going  after  all.  No  one 
had  ever  disobeyed  me.  But  it  was  shame  really  which 
made  me  agree  to  join  Latimer  Berkeley's  expedition 
at  once — the  letter  came  by  the  early  post.  I  wanted 
to  get  right  away  and  try  to  forget  what  I  had  done 
— and  since  you  had  expressed  your  will,  I  just  left  you 
to  stand  by  it."  He  leaned  upon  the  mantelpiece  now 
and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"Oh,  how  wrong  I  was !  Because  you  were  so  young  I 
should  have  known  that  you  could  not  judge — and  per- 
haps acted  hastily  in  that  sort  of  reaction  which  always 
comes  to  one  after  passion — and  I  should  have  followed 
you  and  brought  you  back." 

His  tones  shook  with  anguish  now.  "Well,  I  am 
punished — and  so  all  that  is  left  for  us  to  do  is  to 
say  good-bye,  my  dear,  and  let  us  each  go  our  ways. 
You,  at  least,  are  not  suffering  as  I  am — because  you 
do  not  care." 

A  little  sob  came  in  Sabine's  throat,  and  she  could 
not  reply.  She  could  only  take  in  the  splendor  of  his 
figure  and  his  gi'ace  as  he  leaned  there  with  dark  bent 
head.     And  so,  in  a  silence  that  seemed  to  throb  and 

218 


THE    :\IAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

thrill,  they  stood  near  together  for  a  few  moments  with 
hearts  at  breaking  point. 

Then  he  controlled  himself;  he  must  go  at  once 
or  he  could  no  longer  answer  for  what  he  might 
do.  She  looked  so  sweet  and  sorrowful  standing 
close  to  his  side,  her  violet  eyes  lowered  so  that 
their  long  lashes  made  a  shadow  upon  her  dimpled 
cheek. 

Intense  magnetic  attraction  drew  them  nearer  and 
nearer. 

"Sabine !"  he  cried  at  last,  hoarsely,  as  though  the 
words  were  torn  from  his  tortured  heart.  *'There  is 
something  about  you  which  tells  me  that  you  do  not 
love  Henry — that  he  has  never  made  you  feel — as  I  once 
made  you  feel,  and  could  make  you  feel  again."  He 
stretched  out  his  arms  in  pain.  "The  temptation  is 
frightful — terrible — just  to  kiss  you  once  more — Dar- 
ling—  Oh !  I  cannot  bear  it.  I  must  go !"  and  he  took 
a  step  away  from  her. 

But  the  Moment  for  Sabine  had  come ;  she  could  re- 
sist its  force  no  more,  every  nerve  in  her  whole  body 
was  quivering — every  unknown,  though  half-guessed 
emotion  was  stirring  her  soul.  Her  whole  being  seemed 
to  be  convulsed  in  one  concentrated  desire.  The  reality 
had  materialized  the  echoes  she  had  often  dimly  felt  from 
that  night  of  long  ago. 

The  wild  passion  which  she  had  feared,  and  only 
that  very  evening  had  repudiated  as  being  an  impos- 

219 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

sible  experience  for  her,  had  now  overtaken  her,  and  she 
could  struggle  no  more. 

"Michael !"  she  whispered  breathlessly,  and  held  out 
her  arms. 

With  a  cry  of  joy  he  clasped  her  to  him  in  a  fierce 
ecstasy.  All  the  pent-up  feelings  in  both  their  souls 
let  loose  at  last. 

It  was  a  moment  which  caused  time  and  place  and 
all  other  things  to  be  forgotten  in  a  glory  as  great  as 
though  eternity  had  come. 

"My  darling,  my  darling !"  he  murmured,  kissing  her 
hair  and  brow  and  eyehds.  "Oh!  the  hideous  cruelty 
that  it  is  all  too  late  and  this  must  ba  good-bye." 

But  Sabine  clung  to  him  half  sobbing,  telling  him  she 
could  not  bear  it;  he  must  not  leave  her  now.  And  so 
they  stood  clasped  together,  trembling  with  love  and 
misery. 

"Darling,"  at  last  he  besought  her,  while  he  unclasped 
her  tender  hands  from  round  his  neck.  "Darling,  do  not 
tempt  me — it  is  frightful  pain,  but  I  must  keep  my 
word.  You  had  reason  once  to  think  that  I  was  an 
uncontrollable  brute,  but  you  shall  not  be  able  to  do  so 
any  more.  I  would  never  respect  myself — or  you — 
again  if  I  let  you  make  me  faithless  to  Henry  now.  It 
is  cruel  sorrow,  but  we  cannot  think  of  ourselves;  you 
know,  we  used  too  lightly  for  our  own  ends  what  should 
have  been  an  awfully  sacred  tie.  Do  you  remember, 
Sabine,  we  swore  to  God  to  love  and  be  faithful  forever 

220 


THE    I^IAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

— not  meaning  a  word  we  said — and  now  we  are  pun- 
ished— "     A  great  sob  shook  liis  deep  voice. 

"Darling  child — I  love  you  madly,  madly,  Sabine — 
dear  little  one — but  you  and  I  are  just  driftwood, 
floating  down  the  tide — not  like  Henry,  who  is  a  splen- 
did fellow  of  great  use  to  England.  It  is  impossible 
that  his  whole  life  should  be  ruined  and  sacrificed  for 
our  selfishness.  Darling — "  and  he  paused  and  drew 
her  to  him  again  fondly,  "It  is  our  own  fault.  We 
have  left  the  situation  develop  through  indecision  and, 
I  expect,  wounded  vanity  and  weakness — and  now  we 
must  have  strength  to  abide  by  our  words.  Henry 
isn't  young  like  we  are,  you  see.  I  honestly  be- 
lieve it  would  knock  him  right  out  if  anything  went 
wrong." 

But  Sabine  clung  to  him  still.  She  could  think  of 
nothing  but  that  she  loved  him,  and  that  he  was  her 
mate  and  her  husband,  and  why  must  she  be  torn  from 
his  side  for  the  happiness  of  any  other  man. 

She  was  in  an  agony  of  grief.  And  then  suddenly 
back  to  her  came  the  words  of  Pere  Anselme,  heavy  as 
the  stroke  of  doom.  Yes,  she  had  taken  matters  into'  her 
own  hands  and  presumed  to  direct  fate,  and  now  all 
that  she  could  do  was  to  be  true  to  herself  and  to  her 
word.  Michael  was  right;  they  must  say  good-bye. 
Henry  must  not  be  sacrificed. 

She  raised  her  pitiful  face  from  his  breast  where  it 
was  buried,  and  he  framed  it  in  both  his  hands,  and  it 

221 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

would  have  been  difficult  to  recognize  his  bold  eyes,  so 
filled  were  they  with  tenderness  and  love. 

"Sabine,"  he  commanded,  fondly,  "tell  me  that,  after 
all,  you  have  forgiven  me  for  making  you  stay  that 
night.  You  know  that  we  were  perfectly  happy  at  the 
end  of  it,  and  it  will  be  such  pain  for  me  to  have  to  re- 
member all  the  rest  of  my  life  that  you  hold  resentment. 
Darling,  if  only  you  had  stayed!  Oh!  I  would  have 
cherished  you  and  petted  you,"  here  he  smoothed  her 
hair,  and  murmured  love  words  in  her  ear  with  his  won- 
derful charm,  until  Sabine  felt  that  neither  heaven  nor 
earth  nor  anything  else  mattered  but  only  he. 

"Sweetheart,"  he  went  on,  "we  have  got  to  part  in  a 
moment,  but  I  just  must  know  if  you  love  me  a  little  in 
spite  of  everything.    I  must  know,my  darling  little  girl." 

Then  he  held  her  to  him  again  with  immense  tender- 
ness, even  in  this  moment  of  agonized  parting  exulting 
in  the  intoxication  of  love  he  saw  that  he  had  created 
in  her  eyes.  There  was  no  wile  for  the  enslaving  of  a 
woman's  heart  that  he  was  not  master  of.  The  ques- 
tion as  to  whether  he  ought  to  have  employed  them  on 
this  occasion  is  quite  another  matter,  and  not  for  our 
consideration !  He  was  doing  what  he  thought  was  the 
only  honorable  thing  possible,  giving  up  this  glorious 
happiness,  and  he  was  merely  a  strong,  passionate  hu- 
man being  after  all.  They  were  going  to  part  for  the 
rest  of  their  lives ;  he  must  make  her  tell  him  that  she 
loved  him,  he  wanted  to  hear  her  say  the  words. 

222 


THE    ]VIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

"Sabine — little  darling — answer  me,"  he  pleaded. 

She  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck,  her  whole  body 
vibrating  with  emotion. 

"I  love  you  absolutely,  Michael,"  she  cried,  "and  I 
have  always  forgiven  you — I  was  mad  to  leave  you, 
and  I  have  longed  often  to  go  back.  Oh !  I  would  sooner 
be  dead  than  not  to  be  your  wife." 

They  both  were  white  now,  the  misery  was  so  great. 
He  knew  he  must  go  at  once,  or  he  could  never  go  at 
all.  They  were  too  racked  with  present  suffering  to 
think  what  the  future  could  contain,  or  of  the  grow- 
ing agony  of  the  long  weary  days  and  how  they  could 
ever  bear  them. 

"My  God,  this  is  past  endurance !"  Michael  exclaimed 
frantically.  And  after  a  wild  embrace,  he  almost  flung 
her  from  him.  Then,  as  she  staggered  to  a  sofa  she 
heard  the  door  close,  and  knew  that  chapter  of  her  life 
was  done. 

She  sat  there  for  a  while  gazing  into  the  fire,  too 
stunned  with  misery  even  to  think ;  but  presently  every- 
thing came  to  her  with  merciless  clearness.  How  small 
she  had  been  all  along!  Instead  of  waiting  until  she 
heard  the  truth,  she  had  let  a  wretched  paragraph  in  a 
newspaper  inflame  her  wounded  vanity,  so  that  she  gave 
her  promise  to  Henry  there  and  then — putting  the  rope 
round  her  neck  with  her  own  hands.  And  afterwards, 
instead  of  being  brave  and  true,  wounded  vanity  again 
had  caused  her  to  tighten  the  knot.     She  remembered 

828 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

Henry's  words  when  he  had  implored  her  to  tell  him 
what  were  the  actual  wishes  of  her  heart — and  how  she 
had  cut  off  all  retreat  by  her  answer.  She  remembered 
all  his  goodness  to  her  and  how  she  had  accepted  it  as 
her  due,  making  him  care  for  her  more  and  more  as 
each  day  came. 

"I  have  been  a  hopeless  coward,"  she  moaned,  "a  pal- 
try, vain,  hopeless  coward.  I  should  have  owned  Mi- 
chael was  my  husband  immediately.  Henry  could  have 
got  over  it  then,  and  now  we  might  be  happy — but  it  is 
too  late;  there  is  nothing  to  be  done !" 

Then  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobbed 
brokenly.  "Oh,  my  love,  my  love — and  I  did  not  even 
now  tell  you  all." 

The  clock  struck  one — supper  would  be  beginning 
and  she  must  go  down.  If  Michael  could  bear  this 
agony  and  behave  like  a  gentleman,  she  also  must  play 
her  part  with  dignity.  Henry  would  be  waiting  at  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs. 

She  went  rapidly  to  her  room  and  removed  all  traces 
of  emotion,  and  then  she  returned  to  the  hall  by  the 
way  she  had  come. 

"I  was  growing  quite  anxious,  dearest,"  Lord  For- 
dyce  told  her,  as  he  advanced  to  meet  her  when  she 
came  down  the  stairs.  "I  feared  you  were  ill,  and 
was  just  coming  to  find  you.  Let  us  go  straight 
in  to  supper  now — you  look  rather  pale.  I  must 
take  care  of  you  and  give  you  some  champagne,"  and 

224 


^ 


~\ 


\A>m- 


vfi^ 


H: 

i 

V;: 

i 

1 

N 

^ 

"  '  He  is  often  in  some  scrape — something  must  have 
culminated  to-night 


THE    :\IAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

he  placed  her  hand  in  his  arm  fondly  and  led  her 
along. 

They  found  chairs  which  had  been  kept  for  them  at 
a  centre  table,  near  their  hostess  and  Moravia,  and  here 
they  sat  down.  Michael  was  nowhere  in  sight,  but  pres- 
ently he  came  in  with  one  of  the  house-party,  and  Mrs. 
Forster  beckoned  them  to  her — and  tlius  it  happened 
that  he  was  again  at  Sabine's  side.  His  eyes  had  a 
reckless,  stony  stare  in  them,  and  he  confined  his  con- 
versation to  the  lady  he  had  taken  in.  And  Henry, 
who  was  watching  him,  whispered  to  Sabine: 

"He  is  often  in  some  scrape,  Miclmcl — something 
must  have  culminated  to-night.  I  have  never  seen  him 
looking  so  haggard  and  pale." 

Sabine  drank  down  her  glass  of  champagne;  she 
thought  she  could  no  longer  support  the  situation.  She 
almost  felt  she  hated  Henry  and  his  devotion, — it  was 
paralyzing  her,  suffocating  her — crushing  her  life. 
Michael  never  spoke  to  her — beyond  a  casual  word — 
and  at  length  they  all  went  back  to  the  ballroom,  where 
an  extra  was  being  played — Michael,  for  a  moment, 
standing  by  her  side.  Then  a  sudden  madness  came  to 
them  as  their  eyes  met,  and  he  held  out  his  arm. 

"This  is  my  dance,  I  think,  Mrs.  Howard,"  he  said 
with  careless  sangfroid,  and  he  whirled  her  away  into 
the  middle  of  the  room.  They  both  were  perfect  dancers 
and  never  stopped  in  their  wild  career  until  the  music 
ended.     It  was  a  two-step,  and  all  the  young  people 

225 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

clapped  for  the  band  to  go  on.  So  once  more  they 
started  with  the  throng.  They  had  not  spoken  a  single 
word;  it  was  a  strange  comfort  to  them  just  to  be 
together — half  anguish,  half  bliss — but  as  the  last  bars 
died  away,  Michael  whispered  in  her  ear : 

"I  am  going  to  say  good-night  to  Rose.  She  is  ac- 
customed to  my  ways.  I  have  ordered  my  motor,  and 
I  am  going  home  to-night — I  cannot  bear  it  another  sin- 
gle minute.  If  I  stayed  until  to-morrow  I  should  break 
my  word.  I  love  you  to  absolute  distraction —  Good- 
bye," and  without  waiting  for  her  to  answer  he  left  her 
close  to  Henry  and  turning  was  lost  in  the  crowd. 

Suddenly  the  whole  room  reeled  to  Sabine,  the  lights 
danced  in  her  eyes,  and  a  rushing  sound  came  in  her 
ears.  She  would  have  fallen  forward  only  Lord  For- 
dyce  caught  her  arm,  while  he  cried,  in  solicitous  con- 
sternation : 

"My  dearest,  you  have  danced  too  much.  You  feel 
faint — let  me  take  you  out  of  all  this  into  the  cool." 

But  Sabine  pulled  herself  together  and  assured  him 
she  was  all  right — she  had  been  giddy  for  a  moment — 
he  need  not  distress  himself ;  and  as  they  walked  into  the 
conservatory  she  protested  vehemently  that  she  had 
never  been  at  so  delightful  a  ball. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

SOBBING  wind  and  a  weeping  rain  beat 
round  the  walls  of  Arranstoun,  and  the  great 
gray  turrets  and  towers  made  a  grim  picture 
against  the  November  sky,  darkening  toward  late  after- 
noon, as  its  master  came  through  the  postern  gate  and 
across  the  lawn  to  his  private  rooms.  He  had  been 
tramping  the  moorland  beyond  the  park  without  Binko 
or  a  gun,  his  thoughts  too  tempestuous  to  bear  with 
even  them.  For  the  letter  to  Messrs.  McDonald  and 
Maiden  had  gone,  and  the  first  act  of  the  tragedy  of 
his  freedom  had  been  begun. 

It  was  a  colossal  price  to  pay  for  honor  and  friend- 
ship, but  while  they  liad  been  brigands  and  robbers  for 
liundreds  of  years,  the  Arranstouns  had  not  been  dis- 
honorable men,  and  had  once  or  twice  in  their  history 
done  a  great  and  generous  thing, 

INIichael  was  not  of  the  character  which  lauded  itself, 
indeed  he  was  never  introspective  nor  thought  of  himself 
at  all.  He  was  just  strong  and  living  and  breathing, 
his  actions  governed  by  an  inherited  sense  of  the  fit- 
ness of  things  for  a  gentleman's  code,  which,  unless  it 

227 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

was  swamped,  as  on  one  occasion  It  had  been  by  violent 
passion,  very  seldom  led  him  wrong. 

Now  he  determined  never  to  look  ahead  or  picture 
the  blankness  of  his  days  as  they  must  become  with  no 
hope  of  ever  seeing  Sabine.  He  supposed  vaguely  that 
the  pain  would  grow  less  in  time.  He  should  have  to 
play  a  lot  of  games,  and  take  tremendous  interest  in 
his  tenants  and  his  property  and  perhaps  presently  go 
into  Parliament.  And  if  all  that  failed,  he  could  make 
some  expedition  into  the  wilds  again.  He  was  too 
healthy  and  well-balanced  to  have  even  in  this  moment 
of  deep  suffering  any  morbid  ideas. 

When  he  had  changed  his  soaking  garments,  he  came 
back  into  his  sitting-room  and  pulled  Binko  upon  his 
knees.  The  dog  and  his  fat  wrinkles  seemed  some  kind 
of  comfort  to  him. 

"She  remembered  you,  Binko,  old  man,"  he  said, 
caressing  the  creature's  ears.  "She  is  the  sweetest 
little  darling  in  all  the  world.  You  would  have  loved 
her  soft  brown  hair  and  her  round  dimpled  cheek.  And 
she  loves  your  master,  Binko,  just  as  he  loves  her;  she 
has  forgiven  him  for  everything  of  long  ago — and  if 
she  could,  she  would  come  back  here,  and  live  with  us 
and  make  us  divinely  happy — as  we  believed  she  was 
going  to  do  once  when  we  were  young." 

And  then  he  thought  suddenly  of  Henry's  home — ^the 
stately  Elizabethan  house  amidst  luxuriant,  peaceful 
scenery — not  grim  and  strong  like  Arranstoun — though 

228 


THE    ]MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

she  preferred  gaunt  castles,  evidently,  since  she  had 
bought  Heronac  for  her  own.  But  the  thought  of 
Henry's  home  and  her  adorning  it  brought  too  intimate 
pictures  to  his  imagination;  thej'^  galled  him  so  that  at 
last  he  could  not  bear  it  and  started  to  his  feet. 

It  was  possible  to  part  from  her  and  go  away,  but 
it  was  not  possible  to  contemplate  calmly  the  fact  of 
her  being  the  wife  of  another  man.  Material  things 
came  always  more  vividly  to  Michael  than  spiritual 
ones,  and  the  vision  he  had  conjured  up  was  one  of 
Sabine  encircled  by  Henry's  arms.  This  was  unbear- 
able— and  before  he  was  aware  of  it  he  found  he  was 
clenching  his  fists  in  rage,  and  that  Binko  was  sitting 
on  his  haunches,  blinking  at  him,  with  his  head  on  one 
side  in  his  endeavors  to  understand. 

Michael  pulled  himself  together  and  laughed  bitterly 
aloud. 

"I  must  just  never  think  of  it,  old  man,"  he  told  the 
dog,  "or  I  shall  go  mad." 

Then  he  sat  down  again.  With  what  poignant  re- 
gret he  looked  back  upon  his  original  going  to  China! 
If  only  he  had  stayed  and  gone  after  her,  that  next 
day,  and  seized  her  again,  and  brought  her  back  here 
to  this  room — they  would  have  had  five  years  of  hap- 
piness. She  was  sweeter  now  far  than  she  had  been 
then,  and  he  could  have  watched  her  developing,  instead 
of  her  coming  to  perfection  all  alone.  That  under 
these  circumstances  she  might  never  have  acquired  that 

229 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

polish  of  mind,  and  strange  dignity  and  reserve  of  man- 
ner which  was  one  of  her  greatest  attractions,  did  not 
strike  him — as  it  has  been  plainly  said,  he  was  not 
given  to  analysis  in  his  judgment  of  things. 

"I  wish  she  had  had  a  baby,  Binko,"  he  remarked, 
when  once  more  seated  in  his  chair.  "Then  she  wouM 
have  been  obliged  to  return  at  once  of  her  own  accord." 

Binko  grunted  and  slobbered  his  acquiescence  and 
sympathy,  with  his  wise  old  fat  head  poked  into  his 
master's  arm. 

"You  are  trying  to  tell  me  that  as  I  had  gone  off  to 
China,  she  couldn't  have  done  that  in  any  case,  you 
old  scoundrel.  And  of  course  you  are  right.  But  she 
did  not  try  to,  you  know.  There  was  no  letter  from 
her  among  the  hundreds  which  were  waiting  for  me  at 
Hong  Kong — or  here  when  I  got  back.  She  could 
have  sent  me  a  cable,  and  I  would  have  returned  like 
a  shot  from  anywhere.  But  she  did  not  want  me  then ; 
she  wanted  to  be  free — and  now,  when  she  does,  her 
hands  are  already  tied.  The  whole  cursed  thing  is  her 
own  fault,  and  that  is  what  is  the  biggest  pain,  old 
dog." 

Then  his  thoughts  wandered  back  to  their  scene  in 
Rose  Forster's  sitting-room — that  was  pleasure  indeed.' 
And  he  leaned  back  in  his  big  chair  and  let  himself 
dream.  He  could  hear  her  words  telling  him  that  she 
loved  him  and  could  feel  her  soft  lips  pressed  in  passion 
to  his  own. 

230 


THE  ^lAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

"Mj  God!  I  can't  bear  it,"  he  cried  at  last,  once 
more  clenching  his  hands. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  # 

And  so  it  went  on  through  days  and  nights  of  an- 
guish, the  aspects  of  the  case  repeating  themselves  in 
endless  persistence,  until  with  all  his  will  and  his  strong 
health  and  love  of  sport  and  vigorous  work,  the  agony 
of  desire  for  Sabine  grew  into  an  obsession. 

Whatever  sins  he  had  committed  in  his  life,  indeed 
his  punishment  had  come. 

Sabine,  for  her  part,  found  the  days  not  worth  liv- 
ing. Nothing  in  life  or  nature  stays  at  a  standstill; 
if  stagnation  sets  in,  then  death  comes — and  so  it  was 
tliat  her  emotions  for  Michael  did  not  remain  the  same, 
but  grew  and  augmented  more  and  more  as  the  cer- 
tainty that  they  were  parted  for  ever  forced  itself  upon 
her  brain. 

They  had  not  been  back  in  London  a  day  when  Mr. 
Parsons  announced  to  her  that  at  last  all  was  going 
well.  Mr.  Arranstoun  had  put  the  matter  in  train 
and  soon  she  would  be  free.  And,  shrewd  American 
that  he  was,  he  wondered  why  she  should  get  so  pale. 
The  news  did  not  appear  to  be  such  a  very  great  pleas- 
ure to  her  after  all !  Her  greatest  concern  seemed  to 
be  that  he  should  arrange  that  there  should  be  no  notice 
of  anything  in  the  papers. 

"I  particularly  do  not  wish  Lord  Fordyce  ever  to 
know  that  my  name  was   Arranstoun,"   she  said.     "I 

231 


TPIE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

will  pay  anything  if  it  is  necessary  to  stop  reports — 
and  if  such  things  are  possible  to  do  in  this  country?" 

But  Mr.  Pai'sons  could  hold  out  no  really  encourag- 
ing hopes  of  this.  No  details  would  probably  be 
known,  but  that  Michael  Arranstoun  had  married  a 
Sabine  Delburg  and  now  divorced  her  would  certainly 
be  announced  in  the  Scotch  journals,  where  the  Arrans- 
touns  and  their  Castle  were  of  such  interest  to  the 
public. 

"If  only  I  had  been  called  Mary  Smith!"  Sabine  al- 
most moaned.  "If  Lord  Fordyce  sees  this  he  must 
realize  that,  although  he  knows  me  as  Sabine  Howard, 
I  was  probably  Sabine  Delburg." 

"I  should  think  you  had  better  inform  his  lordship 
yourself  at  once.  There  is  no  disgrace  in  the  matter. 
Arranstoun  is  a  very  splendid  name,"  Mr.  Parsons  ven- 
tured to  remind  her. 

But  Sabine  shut  her  firm  mouth.  Not  until  it  be- 
came absolutely  necessary  would  she  do  this  thing. 

Henry's  company  now  had  no  longer  power  to  soothe 
her;  she  found  herself  crushing  down  sudden  inclina- 
tions to  be  capricious  to  him  or  even  unkind — and  then 
she  would  feel  full  of  remorse  and  regret  when  she  saw 
the  pain  in  his  fond  eyes.  She  was  thankful  that  they 
were  returning  to  Paris,  and  then  she  meant  to  go 
straight  to  Heronac,  telhng  him  he  must  see  her  no 
more  until  she  was  free.  It  was  the  month  of  the  great- 
est storms  there ;  it  would  suit  her  exactly  and  it  was 

232 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

her  very  own.  She  need  not  act  for  only  Madame  Imo- 
gen and  Pere  Ansehne.  But  when  she  thought  of  this 
latter  a  sensation  of  discomfort  came.  How  could  she 
read  in  peace  with  the  dear  old  man,  who  was  so  keen 
and  so  subtle  he  would  certainly  divine  that  all  was 
not  well?  And  ever  his  sentence  recurred  to  her:  "Re- 
member always,  my  daughter,  that  le  Bon  Dieu  settles 
things  for  us  mortals  if  we  leave  it  all  to  Him,  but  if 
we  take  the  helm  in  the  direction  of  our  own  affairs, 
it  may  be  that  He  will  let  circumstance  draw  us  into 
rough  waters."  And  then,  that  as  she  had  taken  the 
helm  she  must  abide  by  her  word.  Bitterness  and  re- 
gret were  her  portion — in  a  far  greater  degree  than 
after  that  other  crisis  of  her  life,  when  its  realities  had 
come  to  her,  and  she  knew  she  must  bear  them  alone. 
She  had  been  too  young  then  to  understand  half  the 
possibilities  of  mental  pain,  and  also  there  was  no 
finality  about  anything — all  might  develop  into  sun- 
shine again.  Now  she  had  the  most  ciniel  torture  of 
all,  the  knowledge  that  she  herself  by  her  wilfulness  and 
pride  had  pulled  down  the  blinds  and  brought  herself 
into  darkness,  and  that  tliere  was  not  anything  to  be 
done. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  unhappy  than  was  the 
state  of  these  two  young  people  in  their  separate  homes. 
In  the  old  days  when  she  used  to  try  and  banish  the 
too  lenient  thoughts  of  Michael,  she  had  always  the 
picture  of  his  selfishness  and  violent  passion  to  call  up 

233 


THE    IVIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

to  her  aid — but  that  was  blotted  out  now,  and  in  its 
place  there  was  the  memory  that  it  was  he,  not  she, 
who  had  behaved  nobly  and  decided  to  sacrifice  all 
happiness  to  be  true  to  his  friend.  Sometimes  when  she 
first  got  back  to  Heronac  she,  too,  allowed  herself  to 
dream  of  their  good-bye,  and  the  cruel  sweetness  of 
that  brief  moment  of  bliss,  and  she  would  go  through 
strange  thrills  and  quivers  and  stretch  out  her  arms  in 
the  firelight  and  whisper  his  name  aloud — "Michael — 
my  dear  love!" 

She  could  not  even  bear  the  watching,  affectionate 
eyes  of  Madame  Imogen  and  sent  her  to  Paris  on  a 
month's  holiday.  The  Pere  Anselme  had  been  away 
when  she  arrived,  at  the  deathbed  of  an  old  sister  at 
Versailles,  so  she  was  utterly  alone  in  her  grim  castle, 
with  only  the  waves. 

The  once  looked-for  letters  from  Henry  were  a 
dreaded  tie  now.  She  would  have  to  answer  them! — ■ 
and  as  his  grew  more  tender  and  loving,  so  hers  uncon- 
sciously became  more  cold,  with  a  note  of  bitterness  in 
them  sometimes  of  which  she  was  unaware. 

And  Henry,  in  Paris  with  Moravia,  wondered  and 
grieved,  and  grew  sick  at  heart  as  the  days  went  on. 
He  had  let  his  political  ambitions  slide,  and  lingered 
there  as  being  nearer  his  adored  one,  instead  of  going 
home. 

Now  love  was  playing  his  sad  pranks  with  all  of 
them,   and   the   Princess    Torniloni   was    receiving   her 

234 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    IMOMENT 

share.  The  constant  companionship  of  Henry  had  not 
made  her  feelings  more  calm.  She  was  really  in  love 
with  him  with  all  that  was  best  and  greatest  in  her 
sweet  nature,  and  it  was  changing  her  every  idea.  She 
was  even  getting  a  little  vicarious  happiness  out  of  be- 
ing a  sympathetic  friend,  and  as  he  grew  sad  and  rest- 
less, so  she  became  more  gentle  and  tender,  and  watched 
over  him  like  a  fond  mother  with  a  child.  She  would 
not  look  ahead  or  face  the  fact  that  he  had  grown  too 
dear;  she  was  living  her  Indian  summer,  she  told  her- 
self, and  would  not  see  its  end. 

"How  awfully  good  you  are  to  me,  Princess,"  he 
told  her  one  afternoon,  as  they  walked  together  in  the 
bright  frosty  air  about  a  week  after  Sabine  had  left 
them.  "I  never  have  known  so  kind  a  woman.  You 
seem  to  think  of  gentle  and  sympathetic  things  to  say 
before  one  even  asks  for  your  sympathy.  How  great- 
ly I  misjudged  your  nation  before  I  knew  you  and 
Sabine !" 

"No,  I  don't  think  you  did  misjudge  us  in  general," 
she  replied.  "Lots  of  us  are  horrid  when  we  are  on 
the  make,  and  those  are  the  sorts  you  generally  meet 
in  England.  We  would  not  go  there,  you  see,  if  it 
was  not  to  get  something.  We  can  have  everything 
material  as  good,  if  not  better,  in  our  own  country, 
only  we  can't  get  your  repose,  or  your  atmosphere, 
and  we  are  growing  so  much  cleverer  and  richer  every 
year  that  we  hate  to  think  there  is  something  we  can't 

235 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

buy,  and  so  we  come  over  to  England  and  set  to  work 
to  grab  it  from  you !" 

"How  delightful  you  are !" 

"I  am  only  echoing  Sabine,  who  has  all  the  quaint 
ideas.  In  that  pretty  young  baby's  head  she  thinks  out 
evolution,  and  cause  and  effect,  and  heredity,  and  every 
sort  of  deep  tiresome  thing!" 

"Have  you  heard  from  her  to-day.  Princess?" 
Henry's  voice  was  a  little  anxious.  She  had  not  writ- 
ten to  him. 

"Yes." 

"She  seems  to  be  in  rather  a  queer  mood.  What  has 
caused  it,  do  you  know,  dear  friend?" 

"I  have  not  the  slightest  idea — it  has  puzzled  me, 
too,"  and  Moravia's  voice  was  perplexed.  "Ever  since 
the  ball  at  your  sister's  she  has  been  changed  in  some 
way.  Had  you  any  quarrel  or — jar,  or  difference  of 
opinion?  Don't  think  I  am  asking  from  curiosity — 
I  am  really  concerned." 

Henry's  distinguished  face  grew  pinched-looking ;  it 
cut  like  a  knife  to  have  his  vague  unadmitted  fears  put 
into  words. 

"We  had  no  discussions  of  any  kind.  She  was  par- 
ticularly sweet,  and  spent  nearly  the  whole  evening  with 
me,  as  you  know.  Is  it  something  about  her  husband, 
do  you  think,  which  is  troubling  her?  But  it  cannot 
be  that,  because  in  her  letter  of  two  days  ago  she  said 
the   proceedings   had   been    started   and    she   would   be 

236 


THE    IMAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

free  perhaps  bj  Christmastime,  as  all  was  being  hur- 
ried through." 

Moravia  gave  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"Sabine  is  certainly  very  strange.  Can  you  be- 
lieve it?  She  has  never  mentioned  the  matter  to  me 
since  we  returned,  and  once  when  I  spoke  of  it,  she 
put  the  subject  aside.  She  did  not  'wish  to  remember 
it,'  she  said." 

"It  is  evidentl}'  that,  then,  and  we  must  have  patience 
with  the  dear  little  girl.  The  husband  must  have  been 
an  unmitigated  wretch  to  have  left  such  a  deep  scar 
upon  her  life." 

"But  she  never  saw  him  from  the  day  after  she  was 
married!"  Moravia  exclaimed;  and  then  pulled  herself 
up  short,  glancing  at  Henry  furtively.  What  had  Sa- 
bine told  him?  Probably  no  more  than  she  had  told 
her — she  felt  the  subject  was  dangerous  ground,  and 
it  would  be  wiser  to  avoid  further  discussion  upon  the 
matter.     So  she  remarked  casually: 

"No,  after  all,  I  do  not  believe  it  has  anything  to 
do  with  the  husband;  it  is  just  a  mood.  She  has  al- 
ways had  moods  for  years.  I  know  she  is  looking  for- 
ward awfully  to  our  all  going  to  her  for  Christmas. 
Then  you  will  be  able  to  clear  away  all  your  clouds." 

But  this  conversation  left  Henry  very  troubled,  and 
Pere  Anselme's  words  about  the  cinders  still  being  red 
kept  recurring  to  him  with  increasing  pain. 

Sabine  had  been  at  Heronac  for  ten  days  when  the 

237 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

old  priest  got  back  to  his  flock.  It  was  toward  the 
end  of  November,  and  the  weather  was  one  raging 
storm  of  rain  and  wind.  The  surf  boiled  round  the 
base  of  the  Castle  and  the  waves  rose  as  giant  foes 
ready  to  attack.  It  comforted  the  mistress  of  it  to 
stand  upon  the  causeway  bridge  and  get  soaking  wet — 
or  to  sit  in  one  of  the  mullioned  windows  of  her  great 
sitting-room  and  watch  the  angry  water  thundering  be- 
neath. And  here  the  Pere  Anselme  found  her  on  the 
morning  after  his  return. 

She  rose  quickly  in  gladness  to  meet  him,  and  they 
sat  down  together  again. 

She  spoke  her  sympathy  for  this  bereavement  which 
had  caused  his  absence,  but  he  said  with  grave  peace: 

"She  is  well,  my  sister — a  martyr  in  life,  she  has 
paid  her  debt.     I  have  no  grief." 

So  they  talked  about  the  garden,  and  of  the  fisher- 
folk,  and  their  winter  needs.  There  had  been  a  wreck 
of  a  fishing  boat,  and  a  wife  and  children  would  be 
hungry  but  for  the  kindness  of  their  Dame  d'Heronac. 

Then  there  was  a  pause — not  one  of  those  calm, 
happy  pauses  of  other  days,  when  each  one  dreamed, 
but  a  pause  wrought  with  unease.  The  cure's  old 
black  eyes  had  a  questioning  expression,  and  then  he 
asked : 

"And  what  is  it,  my  daughter.'*  Your  heart  is  not 
at  rest." 

But  Sabine  could  not  answer  him.     Her  long-con- 

238 


THE  MAN  AXD  THE  MOMENT 

trolled  anguish  won  the  day  and,  as  once  before,  she 
burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

The  Pere  Anselme  did  not  seek  to  comfort  her;  he 
knew  women  well — she  would  be  cahner  presently,  and 
would  tell  him  what  her  sorrow  was.  He  only  mur- 
mured some  words  in  Latin  and  looked  out  on  the  sea. 

Presently  the  sobs  ceased  and  the  Dame  d'Heronac 
rose  quickly  and  left  the  room ;  and  when  she  had  mas- 
tered her  emotion,  she  came  back  again. 

"My  father,"  she  said,  sitting  on  a  low  stool  at  his 
knees,  "I  have  been  very  foolish  and  very  wicked — but 
I  cannot  talk  about  it.     Let  us  begin  to  read." 


CHAPTER    XIX 

EANWHILE  the  divorce  affair  went  on  apace. 
There  was  no  defence,  of  course,  and  Micha- 
el's lawyers  were  clever  and  his  own  influence 
was  great.  So  freedom  would  come  before  the  end  of 
term  probably,  if  not  early  in  the  New  Year,  and 
Henry  felt  he  might  begin  to  ask  his  beloved  one  to 
name  a  date  when  he  could  call  her  his  own,  and  en- 
deavor to  take  every  shadow  from  her  life. 

His  letters  all  this  month  had  been  more  than  extra 
tender  and  devoted,  each  one  showing  that  his  whole 
desire  was  only  for  Sabine's  welfare,  and  each  one, 
as  she  read  it,  put  a  fresh  stab  into  her  heart  and 
seemed  like  an  extra  fetter  in  the  chain  binding  her  to 
him. 

She  knew  she  was  really  the  mainspring  of  his  life 
and  she  could  not,  did  not,  dare  to  face  what  might  be 
the  consequence  of  her  parting  from  him.  Besides,  the 
die  was  cast  and  she  must  have  the  courage  to  go 
through  with  it. 

Mr.  Parsons  had  let  her  know  definitely  that  the  bare 
fact  of  her  name  would  appear  in  the  papers,  and  noth- 

240 


THE  :man  and  the  moment 

ing  more;  and  at  first  the  thought  came  to  her  that  if 
it  had  made  no  impression  upon  Henry's  memory,  when 
he  must  have  read  it  originally  in  the  notice  of  the  mar- 
riage, why  should  it  strike  him  now?  But  this  was 
too  slender  a  thread  to  hang  hope  upon,  and  it  would 
be  wiser  and  better  for  them  all  if  when  Lord  Fordyce 
came  with  Moravia  and  Girolamo  and  Mr.  Cloudwater 
at  Christmas,  she  told  him  the  whole  truth.  The  dread 
of  this  augmented  day  by  day,  until  it  became  a  night- 
mare and  she  had  to  use  the  whole  force  of  her  will  to 
keep  even  an  outward  semblance  of  calm. 

Thoughts  of  Michael  she  dismissed  as  well  as  she 
could,  but  she  had  passionate  longings  to  go  and  take 
out  the  blue  enamel  locket  from  her  despatch-box  and 
look  at  it  once  more;  she  would  not  permit  herself  to 
indulge  in  this  weakness,  though.  Her  whole  days  were 
ruled  with  sternest  discipline  until  she  became  quite 
thin,  and  the  Pere  Anselme  grew  worried  about  her. 

A  fortnight  went  hj ;  it  was  growing  near  to  Christ- 
mastime— but  the  atmosphere  of  Heronac  contained 
no  peace,  and  one  bleak  afternoon  the  old  priest  paced 
the  long  walk  in  the  garden  with  knitted  brows.  He 
did  not  feel  altogether  sure  as  to  what  was  his  duty. 
He  was  always  on  the  side  of  leaving  things  in  the  hand 
of  the  good  God,  but  it  might  be  that  he  would  be 
selected  to  be  an  instrument  of  fate,  since  he  seemed  the 
only  detached  person  with  any  authority  in  the  affair. 

His  Dame  d'Heronac  had  tried  hard  to  be  natural 

2il 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

and  her  old  self,  he  could  see  that,  but  her  taste  in  their 
reading  had  been  over  much  directed  to  Heine,  she  hav- 
ing brought  French  translations  of  this  poet's  works 
back  with  her  from  Paris. 

Twice  also  had  she  asked  him  to  recite  to  her  De 
Mussct's  "La  Nuit  de  Decembre."  He  did  not  consider 
these  as  satisfactory  symptoms.  There  was  no  ques- 
tion in  his  astute  mind  as  to  what  was  the  general  cause 
of  his  beloved  lady's  unrest.  The  change  in  her  had 
begun  to  take  place  ever  since  the  fatal  visit  of  the  two 
Englishmen.  Herein  lay  matter  for  thought.  For 
the  very  morning  before  their  arrival  she  had  been 
particularly  bright  and  gay,  telling  him  of  her  intended 
action  in  making  arrangements  to  free  herself  from  her 
empty  marriage  bonds,  and  apparently  contemplating 
a  new  life  with  Lord  Fordyce  with  satisfaction.  Pere 
Anselme  was  a  great  student  of  Voltaire  and  looked 
upon  his  tale  of  "Zadig"  as  one  from  which  much  bene- 
fit could  be  derived.  And  now  he  began  to  put  the 
method  of  this  citizen  of  Babylon  into  practice,  never 
having  heard  of  the  immortal  Sherlock  Holmes. 

The  end  of  his  cogitations  directed  upon  this  prin- 
ciple brought  him  two  concrete  facts. 

Number  one:  That  Sabine  had  been  deeply  affected 
by  the  presence  of  the  second  Englishman — the  hand- 
some and  vital  young  man — and  number  two :  That  she 
was  now  certainly  regretting  that  she  was  going  to 
obtain  her  divorce.     Further  use  of  Zadig's  deductive 

242 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    ^lO^^IENT 

method  produced  the  conviction  that,  as  an  abstract 
young  man  would  be  equally  out  of  reach  were  she  still 
bound  to  her  husband — or  married  to  Lord  Fordyce — 
and  could  only  be  obtained  were  she  divorced — some 
other  reason  for  her  distaste  and  evident  depression 
about  this  latter  state  coming  to  her  must  be  looked  for, 
and  could  only  be  found  in  the  supposition  that  the 
Seigneur  of  Arranstoun  might  be  himself  her  husband ! 
Why,  then,  this  mystery?  Why  had  not  he  and  she 
told  the  truth?  Zadig's  counsel  could  not  help  him 
to  unravel  this  point,  and  he  continued  to  pace  the 
walk  with  impatient  sighs. 

He  was  even  more  of  a  gentleman  than  of  a  priest,  and 
therefore  forbore  to  question  Sabine  directly,  but  that 
afternoon,  with  the  intention  of  directing  her  mind  into 
facing  eventualities,  he  had  talked  of  Lord  Fordyce, 
and  what  would  be  the  duties  of  her  future  position  as 
his  wife.  Sabine  replied  without  enthusiasm  in  her 
tones,  while  her  words  gave  a  picture  of  all  that  any 
woman's  heart  could  desire: 

"He  is  a  very  fine  character,  it  would  seem,"  the  Pere 
Anselme  said.  "And  he  loves  you  with  a  deep  devo- 
tion." 

Sabine  clasped  her  hands  suddenly',  as  though  the 
thought  gave  her  ph3'sical  pain. 

"He  loves  me  too  much.  Father;  no  woman  should 
be  loved  like  that ;  it  fills  her  with  fear." 

"Fear  of  what?" 

243 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

"Fear  of  failing  to  come  up  to  tlie  standard  of  his 
ideal  of  her — fear  of  breaking  his  heart." 

"I  told  him  in  the  beginning  it  were  wiser  to  be 
certain  all  cinders  were  cold  before  embarking  upon 
fresh  ties,"  Pere  Anselme  remarked  meditatively,  "and 
he  assured  me  that  he  would  ascertain  facts,  and 
whether  or  no  you  felt  he  could  make  you  happy." 

"And  he  did,"  Sabine's  voice  was  strained.  "And 
I  told  him  that  he  could — if  he  would  help  me  to  forget 
— and  I  gave  him  my  word  and  let  him — kiss  me. 
Father — so  I  am  bound  to  him  irrevocably,  as  you  can 
see." 

"It  would  seem  so." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  the  priest  got  up  and 
held  his  thin  brown  hands  to  the  blaze,  his  eyes  averted 
from  her  while  he  spoke. 

"You  must  look  to  the  end,  my  daughter,  and  ask 
yourself  whether  or  no  you  will  be  strong  enough  to 
play  your  part  in  the  years  which  are  coming — since, 
from  what  I  can  judge,  the  embers  are  not  yet  cold. 
Temptation  will  arm  for  you  with  increasing  strength. 
What  then?" 

"I  do — not  know,"  Sabine  whispered  hardly  aloud. 
"It  will  be  necessary  to  be  quite  sure,  my  daughter, 
before  you  again  make  vows." 

And  then  he  turned  the  conversation  abruptly,  which 
was  his  way  when  he  intended  what  he  had  said  to  sink 
deeply  into  the  heart  of  his  listener. 

244 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

But  just  as  he  was  leaving  after  tea  he  drew  the 
heavy  curtains  back  from  one  of  the  great  windows. 
All  was  inky  darkness,  and  the  roaring  of  the  sea  with 
its  breakers  foaming  beneath  them,  came  up  like  the 
menacing  voices  of  an  angry  crowd. 

"The  good  God  can  calm  even  this  rough  water," 
he  said.  "It  would  be  well  that  you  ask  for  guidance,  my 
child,  and  when  it  has  come  to  you,  hesitate  no  more." 

Then,  making  his  sign  of  blessing,  he  rapidly  strode 
to  the  door,  leaving  the  Dame  d'Heronac  crouched 
upon  the  velvet  window-seat,  peering  out  upon  the 
waves. 

And  Michael,  numb  with  misery  and  regret,  was  de- 
ciding to  go  to  Paris  for  Christmas.  The  memories 
at  Arranstoun  he  could  not  endure. 

The  great  suffering  that  he  was  going  through  was 
having  some  effect  upon  his  mind,  refining  him  in  all 
ways,  forcing  him  to  think  and  to  reason  out  all  prob- 
lems of  life.  The  great  dreams  which  used  to  come  to 
him  sometimes  when  in  Kashmire  during  solitary  hours 
of  watching  for  sport  returned.  He  would  surely  do 
something  vast  with  his  life — when  this  awful  pain 
should  be  past.  What,  he  could  not  decide — but  some- 
thing which  would  take  him  out  of  himself.  He  did  not 
think  he  could  stay  in  England  just  at  first  after 
Sabine  should  have  married  Henry — the  chances  of 
running  across  her  would  be  too  great,  since  they  botli 
knew  the  same  people. 

245 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

Henry  would  read  about  the  divorce  and  the  name 
"Sabine  Delburg"  in  the  paper,  too,  and  would  then 
know  everything,  even  if  Sabine  had  not  already  in- 
formed him.  But  he  almost  thought  she  must  have 
done  so,  because  he  had  had  no  word  lately  from  his 
old  friend.  Thus  the  time  went  on  for  all  of  them,  and 
none  but  the  priest  felt  any  premonition  that  Christmas 
would  certainly  bring  a  climax  in  all  of  their  fates. 

Lord  Fordyce  had  hardly  ever  spent  this  season  away 
from  his  mother,  who  was  a  very  old  lady  now,  and 
deeply  devoted  to  him ;  but  the  imperative  desire  to  be 
near  his  adored  overcame  any  other  feeling,  and  he, 
with  the  Princess  and  her  son  and  father,  was  due  to 
arrive  at  Heronac  on  the  day  before  Christmas  Eve. 

He  ran  across  Michael  at  the  Ritz  the  night  before 
he  left  Paris.  They  were  both  dining  with  parties,  and 
nodded  across  the  room,  and  then  afterwards  in  the 
hall  had  a  few  words. 

"To-morrow  I  am  going  down  to  Heronac,  Michael," 
Henry  said.  "Where  do  you  intend  to  spend  the 
festive  season?     Here,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  it  is  as  good  as  anywhere,"  Michael  returned. 
"I  felt  I  could  not  stand  the  whole  thing  at  Arran- 
stoun.  I  have  been  away  from  England  so  long,  I  must 
get  used  to  these  old  anniversaries  again  gradually. 
Here  one  is  free." 

They  looked  into  each  other's  faces  and  Henry  no- 
ticed that  Michael  had  not  quite  got  his  old  exuberant 

24-6 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

expression  of  the  vivid  joy  of  life— he  was  paler  and 
even  a  little  haggard,  if  so  splendid  a  creature  could 
look  that ! 

"I  suppose  he  has  been  going  the  pace  over  here," 
Henry  thought,  and  wondered  why  Michael's  manner 
should  be  a  little  constrained.  Tlicn  they  shook  hands 
with  their  usual  cordiality  and  said  good-night.  And 
Michael  prepared  to  go  on  to  a  supper  party,  with  a 
feeling  of  wild  rebellion  in  his  heart.  The  sight  of 
his  old  friend  and  the  knowledge  that  he  was  on  his 
""'^y  to  join  Sabine  drove  him  almost  mad  again. 

"I  suppose  they  will  be  formally  engaged  in  the  New- 
Year.  I  wonder  how  my  little  girl  is  bearing  it — if  she 
is  half  as  miserable  as  I  am,  God  comfort  her,"  he 
cried  to  himself;  and  then  he  felt  he  could  not  stand 
Miss  Daisy  Van  der  Honi,  and  getting  into  his  motor 
he  told  the  chauffeur  to  drive  into  the  Bois  instead  of 
to  the  supper. 

Here  among  the  dark  trees  he  could  think.  It  was 
all  perfectly  impossible,  and  no  happiness  could  pos- 
sibly come  to  Henry  either — unless  he  succeeded  in  con- 
soling Sabine  when  she  should  be  his  wife.  And  this 
was  perhaps  the  bitterest  thought  of  all — that  she 
sliould  ever  be  consoled  as  Henry's  wife! 

Then  the  extreme  strangeness  of  Henry's  still  being 
in  ignorance  of  his  and  Sabine's  relations  struck  him. 
She  had  evidently  not  yet  had  the  courage  to  tell  the 
truth,  and  so  the  thing  would  come  as  a  shock — and 

247 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

what  would  happen  then?  Who  could  say?  In  any 
case,  Henry  could  not  feel  he  had  not  come  up  to  the 
scratch.  Would  Sabine  ever  tell  Henry  the  whole 
story?  He  felt  sure  she  would  not.  But  how  could 
things  be  expected  to  go  on  with  the  years?  It  was 
all  unthinkable  now  that  it  had  come  so  close. 

It  was  about  five  o'clock  on  the  next  afternoon  that 
the  Princess  and  her  party  arrived  at  Heronac.  Sa- 
bine was  waiting  for  them  in  the  great  hall,  and  greeted 
them  with  feverish  delight,  but  Henry's  worshipping 
eyes  took  in  at  once  the  fact  that  she  was  greatly 
changed.  She  made  a  tremendous  fuss  over  Girolamo, 
for  whom  a  most  sumptuous  tea  had  been  prepared 
in  his  own  nurseries,  and  Henry  thought  how  sweet 
she  was  with  children  and  how  divinely  happy  they 
would  be  in  the  future,  when  they  had  some  of  their 
own! 

But  what  had  altered  his  beloved?  Her  face  had 
lost  its  baby  outline,  it  seemed,  and  her  violet  eyes 
were  full  of  deeper  shadows  than  even  they  had  been  in 
the  first  few  days  of  their  acquaintance  at  Carlsbad. 
He  must  find  all  this  out  for  himself  directly  they 
could  be  alone. 

This  chance,  however,  did  not  seem  likely  to  be 
vouchsafed  to  him,  for  on  the  plea  of  having  "such 
heaps  to  talk  over  with  Moravia,  Sabine  accompanied 
that  lady  to  her  room  and  did  not  appear  again  until 
they  were  all  assembled  in  the  big  salon  for  dinner, 

248 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    IMOMENT 

where  Madame  Imogen,  who  had  returned  the  day  before, 
was  doing  her  best  to  add  to  the  gaiety  of  the  party 
by  her  jolly  remarks. 

The  lady  of  Heronac  had  hardly  been  able  to  control 
herself  as  she  waited  for  her  guests'  arrival  and  felt 
that  to  rush  at  Girolamo  would  be  her  only  hope.  For 
that  morning  the  post  had  brought  the  news  that  the 
divorce  would  be  granted  by  the  end  of  January,  and 
she  would  be  free !  She  had  felt  very  faint  as  she  had 
read  Mr.  Parsons'  letter.  No  matter  how  one  mifirht 
be  expecting  an  axe  to  fall,  when  it  does,  the  shock 
must  seem  immense. 

Sabine  lay  there  and  moaned  in  her  bed.  Then  over 
her  crept  a  fierce  resentment  against  Henry.  Why 
should  she  be  sacrificed  to  him.''  He  was  forty  years 
old,  and  had  lived  his  life ;  and  she  was  young,  and  had 
not  yet  really  begun  to  enjoy  her's.  How  would  she 
be  able  to  bear  it ;  or  to  act  even  complaisance  when 
every  fiber  of  her  being  was  turning  in  mad  passion  and 
desire  to  Michael,  her  love.? 

Then  her  sense  of  justice  resumed  its  sway.  Henry 
at  least  was  not  to  blame — no  one  was  to  blame  but  her 
own  self.  And  as  she  had  proudly  agreed  with  Michael 
that  every  one  must  come  up  to  the  scratch,  she  must 
fulfil  her  part.  There  was  no  use  in  being  dramatic 
and  deciding  upon  a  certain  course  as  being  a  noble 
and  disinterested  one,  and  then  in  not  having  the  pluck 
to  carry  it  through.     She  had  prayed  for  guidance  in- 

249 


THE    INIAN    AND    THE    MOINIENT 

deed,  and  no  light  had  come,  beyond  the  feehng  that 
she  must  stick  to  her  word. 

The  report  of  the  case  would  be  in  the  Scotch  papers, 
and  Michael  Arranstoun  being  such  a  person  of  conse- 
quence it  would  probably  be  just  announced  in  the  Eng- 
lish journals,  too,  and  Henry  would  see  it.  She  could 
delay  no  longer;  he  must  be  told  the  truth  in  the  next 
few  days. 

The  sight  of  his  kind,  distinguished  face  shining  with 
love  had  unnerved  her.  She  must  tell  him  with  all  seem- 
ing indifference,  and  then  close  the  scene  as  quickly  as 
she  could. 

While  Sabine  and  Moravia  talked  in  the  latter's  room, 
Moravia  was  full  of  discomfort  and  anxiety.  Her  much 
loved  friend  appeared  so  strange.  She  seemed  to  speak 
feverishly,  as  it  were,  to  be  trying  to  keep  the  conversa- 
tion upon  the  lightest  subjects;  and  when  Moravia 
asked  her  how  the  divorce  was  going,  she  put  the  ques- 
tion aside  and  said  that  they  would  speak  of  tiresome 
things  like  that  when  Christmas  was  over! 

"But,"  explained  the  Princess,  "I  don't  call  it  at  all 
tiresome.  It  means  your  freedom,  Sabine,  and  then  you 
will  be  able  to  marry  Henry,  He  absolutely  worships 
the  ground  you  tread  on,  and  if  anything  had  gone 
wrong,  I  think  it  would  have  simply  killed  him  quite." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  returned  Sabine.  "That  thought  is 
with  me  day  and  night." 

"What  do  you  mean,  darling.''" 

250 


THE    MAX    AND    THE    MOMENT 

"I  mean  that  Henry's  love  frightens  me,  Morri. 
How  shall  I  ever  be  able  to  live  up  to  being  the  ideal 
creature  he  thinks  that  I  am?"  and  Sabine  gave  a  forced 
laugh. 

"You  are  not  a  bad  sort,  you  know,"  the  Princess 
told  her.  "A  man  would  be  very  hard  to  please  if  he 
was  not  quite  satisfied  with  you !" 

Moravia's  own  pain  about  the  whole  thing  never 
clouded  her  sense  of  justice.  Henry's  love  for  her 
friend  had  been  manifest  from  the  very  beginning,  so 
she  had  never  had  any  illusions  or  doubt  about  it;  and 
if  she  had  been  so  weak  and  foolish  as  to  allow  herself 
to  fall  in  love  with  him,  she  must  bear  it  and  not  be 
mean.     Sabine  certainly  was  not  to  blame. 

"I — hope  I  shall  satisfy  him,"  Sabine  sighed;  "but 
I  do  not  know.  What  does  satisfy  a  man?  Tell  me, 
Moravia — you  who  understand  them." 

"It  depends  upon  the  man,"  and  the  Princess  looked 
thoughtful.  "I  know  now  that  if  I  had  been  clever  I 
could  have  satisfied  Girolamo  for  ages,  by  appearing 
to  be  always  just  a  little  out  of  his  reach,  so  as  to  keep 
his  hunting  instinct  alive.  When  a  man  is  a  very  strong, 
passionate  creature  like  that,  it  is  the  only  way — make 
him  scheme  to  get  you  to  be  lovely  to  him,  make  him 
wait,  and  never  be  sure  if  you  are  going  to  let  him 
kiss  you  or  no;  and  if  you  adore  him  really  yourself, 
hide  it,  and  let  him  feel  always  that  he  has  to  use 
his  wits  and  all  his  charms  to  keep  you.     Oil !     I  could 

251 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

have  been  so  happy  if  I  had  known  these  things   in 
time!" 

"Yes,  Morri,  but  Henry  is  not — Hke  that.  How 
must  I  satisfy  him?" 

Moravia  lay  back  in  her  chair  and  discoursed  medi- 
tatively. 

"It  is  only  the  very  noblest  natures  in  men  that 
women  can  be  perfectly  frank  with,  and  as  good  and 
kind  and  tender  as  they  feel  they  would  like  to  be. 
Lord  Fordyce  is  one  of  these.  You  could  load  him  with 
devotion  and  love,  and  he  would  never  take  advantage 
of  you;  but  just  to  satisfy  him,  Sabine,  you  need  only 
be  you,  I  expect!"  and  she  looked  fondly  at  her  friend. 
*'Though,  darling,  I  tell  you,  if  you  w^ere  too  nice  to 
him,  even  he  might  turn  upon  you  some  day,  probably. 
No  woman  can  afford  to  be  really  devoted  to  a  man ; 
they  can't  help  being  mean,  and  immediately  thinking 
the  poor  thing  is  of  less  consequence  to  please  than 
some  capricious  cat  they  cannot  obtain !" 

Sabine  nodded,  and  Moravia  went  on :  "But  you 
need  not  fear !  Henry  will  adore  you  always — because 
you  really  don't  care!"  and  she  sighed  a  little  bitterly 
at  the  contrariness  of  things. 

"It  is  good  not  to  care,  then.'"' 

"Yes,  I  think  so ;  for  happiness  in  a  home,  the  woman 
ought  always  to  love  a  little  the  less." 

"Well,  we  shall  be  very  happy,  then,"  and  Sabine 
echoed  Moravia's  sigh,  but  much  more  bitterly. 

252 


THE    iVIAN    AND    THE    ]M0:MENT 

"You  will  be  good  to  him,  dearest?"  Moravia  asked 
rather  anxiously.  "He  is  the  grandest  character  I  have 
ever  met  in  my  hfe." 

"Yes,  I  will  be  good  to  him." 

'Just  think!"  Moravia,  who  had  domestic  instincts, 
now  went  on,  in  spite  of  the  personal  anguish  she  was 
feeling  about  her  own  love  for  Henry.  "You  may  have 
the  happiness  soon  of  being  the  mother  of  a  lovely  little 
son  like  Girolamo !"  and  she  gave  a  great  sigh  as  she 
looked  into  the  fire. 

Sabine  stiffened  all  over,  and  an  expression  of  horri- 
fied repugnance  and  dismay  grew  in  her  face,  and  she 
drew  her  breath  in  with  a  little  gasp.  She  had  not 
faced  this  thought  before,  and  she  could  not  bear  it 
now,  and  got  up  quickly,  saying  she  must  go  off  and 
dress  or  she  would  be  late  for  dinner. 

Moravia  looked  after  her,  full  of  wonder  and  fore- 
boding for  Henry.  What  happiness  could  he  expect 
if  the  woman  he  adored  felt  hke  that ! 


CHAPTER  XX 

CHRISTMAS  eve  was  particularly  frosty  and 
bright.  The  sun  poured  through  Sabine's 
windows  high  up  when  she  woke,  but  her  heart 
was  heavy  as  lead.  She  had  not  had  a  single  word  alone 
with  Henry  the  night  before,  and  knew  the  dreaded 
tete-a-tete  must  come.  She  did  not  set  herself  to  tell 
him  who  her  husband  was  on  this  particular  morning — 
about  that  she  must  be  guided  by  events — but  she  could 
not  make  barriers  between  them,  and  must  allow  him  to 
come  to  her  sitting-room.  He  did,  about  half-past  ten 
o'clock,  his  face  full  of  radiance  and  love.  She  had 
always  steadfastly  refused  to  take  any  presents  from 
him,  but  he  had  had  the  most  beautiful  flowers  sent  from 
Paris  for  her,  and  they  had  just  arrived.  She  was  tak- 
ing them  out  of  their  box  herself.  This  made  a  pretext 
for  her  to  express  delighted  thanks,  and  for  a  little  she 
played  her  part  so  well  that  all  Henry's  doubts  were 
set  at  rest,  and  he  told  himself  that  he  had  been  imagi- 
native and  foolish  to  think  that  anything  was  changed 
in  her. 

He  helped  her  to  put  all  the  lovely  blooms  into  vases, 

254 


THE    ]VIAN    AXD    THE    MOMENT 

so  happy  to  think  they  should  give  her  pleasure.  And 
all  the  while  he  talked  to  her  lovingly  and  soothingly, 
until  Sabine  could  have  screamed  aloud,  so  full  of  re- 
morse and  constraint  she  felt.  If  he  would  onl^'  be  dis- 
agreeable or  unkind ! 

At  last,  among  the  giant  violets,  they  came  upon  one 
bunch  of  white  ones.  These  she  took  and  separated, 
and,  making  them  into  two,  she  stuck  one  into  her  belt 
and  gave  Henry  the  other  to  put  into  his  coat. 

"Won't  you  fasten  them  in  for  me,  dearest?"  he  said, 
his  whole  countenance  full  of  passionate  love. 

She  came  nearer,  and  with  hasty  fingers  put  the  flow- 
ers into  his  buttonhole. 

The  temptation  was  too  great  for  Henry.  He  put 
his  arm  round  her  and  drew  her  to  his  side,  while  he 
bent  and  kissed  her  sweet  red  mouth. 

She  did  not  resist  him  or  start  away,  but  she  grew 
white  as  death,  and  he  was  conscious  that,  as  he  clasped 
her  close,  a  repressed  shudder  ran  through  her  whole 
frame. 

With  a  little  cry  of  anguish  he  put  her  from  him,  and 
searched  with  miserable  eyes  for  some  message  in  her 
face.  But  her  lids  were  lowered  and  her  lips  were  quiver- 
ing with  some  pain. 

"My  darling,  what  is  it.^  Sabine,  you  shrank  from 
me!    What  does  it  mean?" 

"It  means — nothing,  Henry."  And  the  poor  child 
tried  to  smile.     "Only  that  I  am  very  foolish  and  silly, 

255 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

and  I  do  not  believe  I  like  caresses — much."  And  then, 
to  make  things  sound  more  light,  she  went  on:  "You 
see,  I  have  had  so  few  of  them  in  my  life.  You  must  be 
patient  with  me  until  I  learn  to — understand." 

Of  course  he  would  be  patient,  he  assured  her,  and 
asked  her  to  forgive  him  if  he  had  been  brusque,  his 
refined  voice  full  of  adoring  contrition.  He  caught  at 
any  gossamer  thread  to  stifle  the  obvious  thought  that 
if  she  loved  him  even  ever  so  little  he  would  not  have  to 
accustom  her  to  caresses ;  she  would  long  ago  have  been 
willing  to  learn  all  of  their  meanings  in  his  arms ! — 
and  this  was  only  the  second  time  during  their  acquaint- 
ance that  she  had  even  let  him  kiss  her ! 

But  of  her  own  free  will  she  now  came  and  leaned  her 
head  against  his  shoulder. 

"Henry,"  she  pleaded,  "I  am  not  really  as  I  know 
you  think  I  am — a  gentle  and  loving  woman.  There 
are  all  sorts  of  fierce  sides  in  my  character  which  you 
have  not  an  idea  of,  and  I  am  only  beginning  to  guess 
at  them  myself.  I  do  not  know  that  I  shall  ever  be  able 
to  make  you  happy.  I  am  sure  I  shall  not  unless  you 
will  be  contented  with  very  little." 

"The  smallest  tip  of  your  finger  is  more  precious  to 
me  than  all  the  world,  darling !"  he  protested  with  heat. 
"I  will  be  patient.  I  will  be  anything  you  wish.  I  will 
not  even  touch  you  again  until  you  give  me  leave.  Oh! 
I  adore  you  so — Sabine,  I  will  bear  anything  if  only 
you  do  not  mean  that  you  want  to  send  me  away. 

256 


5> 


THE    IVIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

The  anguish  and  fond  worship  in  his  face  wrung  her 
heart.  She  started  from  hira  and  then,  returning,  held 
out  her  arms,  while  she  cried  with  a  pitiful  gasp,  al- 
most as  of  a  sob  in  her  throat : 

"Yes— take  me  and  kiss  me — ^kiss  me  until  I  don't 
feel ! — I  mean  until  I  feel — ^Henry,  you  said  you  would 
make  me  forget !" 

He  encircled  her  with  his  arm  and  led  her  to  a  sofa, 
murmuring  every  vow  of  passionate  love;  and  here  he 
sat  by  her  and  kissed  her  and  caressed  her  to  his  heart's 
content,  while  she  remained  apparently  passive,  but  still 
as  white  as  the  violets  in  her  dress,  and  inwardly  she 
could  hardly  keep  from  screaming,  the  torture  of 
it  was  so  great.  At  last  she  could  bear  no  more, 
but  disengaging  herself  from  his  arms  she  slipped 
on  to  the  floor,  and  there  sat  upon  a  low  footstool, 
with  her  back  to  the  fire,  shivering  as  though  with  icy 
cold. 

Lord  Fordyce's  instincts  were  too  fine  not  to  realize 
something  of  the  meaning  of  this  scene.  Although  not 
greatly  learned  in  the  ways  of  women,  he  had  kissed 
them  often  before  in  his  life,  and  none  had  received  his 
caresses  like  that.  But  since  she  did  not  repulse  him, 
he  must  not  despair.  She  perhaps  was,  as  she  said,  un- 
used to  fond  dalliance,  and  he  must  be  more  controlled, 
and  wait.  So  with  an  inward  sense  of  pain  and  cliill  in 
his  heart,  he  set  himself  to  divert  her  otherwise,  talking 
of  the  books  which  they  both  loved,  and  so  at  last,  when 

257 


THE  MAN    AND  THE  MOMENT 

Nicholas  announced  that  dejeuner  was  ready,  some  color 
and  animation  had  come  back  to  her  face. 

But  when  she  was  alone  in  her  room  she  looked  out 
of  the  high  window  and  passionately  threw  up  her  arms. 

"I  cannot  bear  it  again !"  she  wailed  fiercely.  "I  feel 
an  utterly  degraded  wretch." 

At  breakfast  the  Pere  Anselme  watched  her  intently 
while  he  kept  his  aloof  air.  He  felt  that  something 
extra  had  disturbed  her.  He  was  to  stay  in  the  house 
with  them  on  Christmas  night,  because  it  was  so  cold 
for  him  to  return  to  his  home  after  dinner,  and  Sabine 
could  not  possibly  spare  him ;  she  assured  him  he  must 
be  with  them  at  every  meal.  His  wit  was  so  apt,  and 
with  JMadame  Imogen's  aid  he  kept  the  ball  rolling  as 
merrily  as  he  could.  But  he,  no  less  than  Henry,  was 
conscious  that  all  was  not  well. 

And  afterwards,  as  he  went  towards  the  village,  he 
communed  with  himself,  his  kind  heart  torn  with  the 
deep-seated  look  of  resignation  In  the  eyes  of  his  Dame 
d'Heronac. 

"She  Is  too  young  to  be  made  to  suffer  it,"  he  said, 
half  aloud.  "The  good  God  cannot  ask  so  much,  as  a 
price  for  wilfulness ;  and  if  this  man  has  grown  as  dis- 
tasteful to  her  as  her  face  seems  to  suggest,  nothing 
but  misery  could  come  from  their  dual  life."  It  was 
all  very  cruel  to  the  Englishman,  no  doubt,  but  where 
was  the  wisdom  of  letting  two  people  suffer,?  Surely 
it  was  better  to  let  only  one  pay  the  stakes,  and  if  this 

258 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOIMENT 

thing  went  on,  both  would  have  equal  unhappiness,  and 
be  tied  together  as  two  animals  in  a  managerie  cao*e. 

No  gentleman  should  accept  such  a  sacrifice.  If  the 
Lord  Fordj^ce  did  not  realize  for  himself  that  somethino- 
had  changed  things,  it  must  be  that  he,  Gaston  d'He- 
ronac,  the  Pere  Anselme,  must  intervene.  It  might  be 
very  fine  and  noble  to  stick  to  one's  word,  but  it  became 
quixotic  if  to  do  so  could  only  bring  misery  to  oneself 
and  one's  mate ! 

The  good  priest  stalked  on  to  his  preshytere,  and  then 
to  his  church,  to  see  that  all  should  be  ready  for  reveil- 
lon  that  night,  and  he  was  returning  to  the  chateau  to 
tea  when  he  met  Henry  taking  a  walk. 

After  lunch  Sabine  had  gone  off  with  Moravia  to 
Girolamo's  nurseries,  and  Lord  Fordyce  had  felt  he  must 
go  out  and  get  some  air.  Mr.  Cloudwater  had  started 
with  Madame  Imogen  in  the  motor  on  a  commission  to 
their  little  town  directly  they  had  all  left  the  dining- 
room.    Thus  Henry  was  alone. 

He  greeted  the  Pere  Anselme  gladly.  The  old  priest's 
cultivated  mind  was  to  him  always  a  source  of  delight. 

So  he  turned  back  and  walked  with  him  into  the  gar- 
den and  along  by  the  sea  wall,  instead  of  across  the 
causeway  and  to  the  house.  This  was  the  doing  of 
the  Pere  Anselme,  for  he  felt  now  might  be  his  time. 

Henry  had  been  growing  more  and  more  troubled 
while  he  had  been  out  by  himself.  He  could  not  dis- 
guise the  fact  that  there  was  some  great  change  in  Sa- 

259 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

bine,  and  now  his  anxious  mood  craved  sympathy  and 
counsel  from  this  her  great  friend. 

"Madame  Howard  does  not  look  quite  well,  Father," 
he  remarked,  after  they  had  pulled  some  modem  philoso- 
phies to  pieces,  and  there  had  been  a  pause.  "She  is 
so  nervous — what  is  the  cause  of  it,  do  you  know?  Per- 
haps this  place  does  not  suit  her  in  the  winter.  It  is 
so  very  cold." 

"Yes,  it  is  cold — but  that  is  not  the  reason."  And 
the  Pere  Anselme  drew  closer  his  old  black  cloak. 
"There  are  other  and  stronger  causes  for  the  state  in 
which  we  find  the  Dame  Sabine." 

Henry  peered  into  his  face  anxiously  in  the  gray 
light — it  was  four  o'clock,  the  day  would  soon  be  gone. 
He  knew  that  these  words  contained  ominous  meaning, 
and  his  voice  was  rather  unsteady  as  he  asked : 

"What  are  the  reasons.  Father?  Please  tell  me  if  you 
are  at  liberty  to  do  so.  To  me  the  welfare  of  this  dear 
lady  is  all  that  matters  in  life." 

The  Cure  of  Heronac  cleared  his  throat,  and  then  he 
said  gently: 

"I  spoke  once  before  to  you  about  the  cinders  and 
as  to  whether  or  no  they  were  still  red.  That  is  what 
causes  her  to  be  restless — she  has  found  that  they  are 
yet  alight." 

Lord  Fordyce  was  a  brave  man,  but  he  grew  very 
pale.  It  seemed  that  suddenly  all  the  fears  which  his 
heart  had  sheltered,  though  would  not  own  as   facts, 

260 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

were  rising  before  him  like  giant  skeletons,  concrete  and 
distinct. 

"But  the  divorce  is  going  well !"  he  exclaimed  a  little 
passionately,  his  hurt  was  so  great.  "She  told  me  so 
last  night ;  she  will  be  free  some  time  in  January,  and 
will  then  be  my  wife." 

His  happiness  should  not  be  torn  from  him  without  a 
desperate  fight. 

The  priest's  voice  was  very  sad  as  he  answered: 

"That  is  so.  She  will,  no  doubt,  be  ready  to  marry 
you  whenever  you  ask  it  is  for  you  to  demand  of  your- 
self whether  you  will  accept  her  sacrifice." 

"Sacrifice !  I  would  never  dream  of  any  sacrifice.  It 
is  unthinkable,  Father !" 

Anguish  now  distraught  Henry's  soul ;  he  stopped  in 
his  walk  and  looked  full  at  the  priest,  his  fine,  distin- 
guished face  working  with  suffering.  The  Pere  Anselme 
thought  to  himself  that  he  would  have  done  very  well 
for  the  model  of  a  martyr  of  old.  It  distressed  him 
deeply  to  see  his  pain  and  to  know  that  there  would  be 
more  to  come. 

"Her  happiness  is  all  that  I  care  for— surely  you 
know  this — but  what  has  caused  this  change?     Has  she 

seen     her     husband     again.? — I "        Hero     Hinry 

stopped,  a  sense  of  stupefaction  stt  in.  What  could  it 
all  mean.'' 

"We  have  never  spoken  upon  the  matter,"  the  priest 
answered  him.    "I  cannot  say,  but  I  tliink— yes,  she  has 

261 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

certainly  come  under  his  influence  again.  Have  you 
never  searched  in  your  mind,  Monsieur,  to  ask  yourself 
who  this  husband  could  be  ?" 

<'j,fo — !  How  should  I  have  done  so?  I  have  never 
been  in  America  in  my  life."  And  then  Henry's  hag- 
gard eyes  caught  a  look  in  the  old  priest's  face.  "My 
God !"  he  cried,  agony  in  his  voice,  "you  would  suggest 
that  it  is  some  one  I  may  know !" 

"I  suggest  nothing,  Monsieur.  I  make  my  own  de- 
ductions from  events.     Will  you  not  do  the  same?" 

Henry  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands.  It  seemed 
as  though  reason  were  slipping  from  him ;  and  then,  like 
a  flash  of  lightning  which  cleared  his  brain,  the  reality 
struck  him. 

"It  is  Michael  Arranstoun,"  he  said  with  a  moan. 
"We  know  nothing  for  certain,"  proclaimed  the  Pere 
Anselme.  "But  the  alteration  began  from  this  young 
man's  visit.  That  is  why  I  warned  you  to  well  ascer- 
tain the  truth  of  her  feelings  before  going  further.  I 
would  have  saved  you  pain." 

Henry  staggered  to  the  wall  of  the  summer-house  and 
leant  there.  His  face  was  ashen-gray  in  the  afternoon's 
dying  light. 

"Oh,  how  hopelessly  blind  I  have  been !" 
The  priest  unclasped  his  tightly-locked  hands ;  his 
old  eyes  were  full  of  pity  as  he  answered: 

"We  may  both  have  made  mistakes.  You  are  more 
aware  of  the  circumstances  than  I  am.-   The  Seigneur 

262 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

of  Arranstoun  is  the  only  man  she  has  seen  here  besides 
yourself.  You  perhaps  know  whom  she  met  in  Eng- 
land, or  Paris  ?" 

"It  is  Michael  Arranstoun,"  Henry  said  in  a  voice 
strangled  and  altered  with  suffering.  "I  see  every  link 
in  the  chain — but,  O  God !  why  have  they  deceived  me  ? 
What  can  it  mean.^  What  hideous,  fiendish  cruelty! 
And  Michael  was  my  old  friend." 

A  wild  rage  and  resentment  convulsed  him.  He  only 
felt  that  he  wished  to  kill  both  these  traitors,  who  had 
tricked  him  and  destroyed  his  beliefs  and  his  happiness. 
Ghastly  thoughts  that  there  might  be  further  disclos- 
ures of  more  shameful  deceptions  to  come  shook  him. 
He  was  trembling  with  passion — and  then  the  priest 
said  something  in  his  grave,  quiet  voice  which  almost 
stunned  him. 

"Has  it  been  done  in  cruelty,  my  son?  You  must 
examine  well  the  facts  before  you  assert  that.  You 
must  not  forget  that  whoever  the  husband  may  be,  he 
has  consented  to  divorce  her,  and  she  is  now  going  to 
give  herself  to  you.  Is  that  cruelty,  my  son?  Or  is 
it  a  fine  keeping  to  a  given  word?  It  looks  to  me  more 
like  a  noble  sacrifice,  unless  the  Seigneur  of  Arrans- 
toun was  aware  before  he  ever  came  here  that  Madame 
Howard  was  his  wife." 

Lord  Fordyce  controlled  himself.  This  thing  must 
be  thought  out. 

"No,  Michael  could  not  hnvc  known  if,"  after  a  mo- 

263 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

ment  or  two  he  averred.  "He  even  laughed  over  the 
name  when  I  told  it  to  him,  and  said  he  had  a  scape- 
grace cousin  out  in  Arizona  and  wondered  if  the  hus- 
band could  be  the  same " 

Then  further  recollections  came  with  a  frightful  stab 
of  anguish,  crushing  all  passion  and  anger  and  leaving 
only  a  sensation  of  pain,  for  he  remembered  that  his 
friend  had  given  him  his  word  of  honor  that  he  would 
not  interfere  with  him  in  his  love-making — and,  indeed, 
would  help  him  in  every  way  he  could,  even  to  lending 
him  Arranstoun  for  the  honeymoon !  That  letter  of 
his,  too,  when  he  had  gone  from  Heronac,  saying  in  it 
casually  he  hoped  that  he,  Henry,  thought  that  he  had 
played  the  game ! — Yes,  it  was  all  perfectly  plain. 
Michael  had  come  there  in  all  innocence,  and  could  not 
be  blamed.  He  remembered  numbers  of  things  unno- 
ticed at  the  time — ^his  own  talk  with  Sabine  when  he  had 
discussed  Michael's  marriage — and  this  brought  him  up 
suddenly  to  her  side  of  the  question.  Why,  in  heaven's 
name,  had  she  not  told  him  the  truth  at  once?  Why 
had  she  pretended  not  to  recognize  Michael?  For,  how- 
ever Michael  might  have  started,  since  he,  Henry,  was 
not  looking  at  him,  Sabine,  whose  face  he  had  been  gaz- 
ing into  all  the  while,  had  shown  no  faintest  recogni- 
tion of  him.  What  a  superb  actress  she  must  be! — or 
perhaps,  having  only  seen  him  those  two  times  in  her 
life,  for  those  short  moments,  she  really  did  not  recog- 
nize him  then.     The  whole  thing  was  so  staggering  in 

264 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

its  hideous  tragedy  his  brain  ahnost  refused  to  tliink; 
but  he  said  this  last  thought  aloud,  and  the  priest's 
strange  sudden  silence  struck  even  his  numbed  sense. 

"She  had  only  seen  him  for  such  a  little  while — they 
parted  immediately  after  the  wedding;  it  was  merely 
an  empty  ceremony,  you  know.  Why,  then,  should  she 
have  had  any  haunting  memories  of  him?" 

The  Pere  Anselme  avoided  answering  this  question 
by  asking  another. 

"You  knew  that  the  Seigneur  of  Arranstoun  was 
wedded,  it  would  seem.     How  was  that?" 

Then  Henry  told  him  the  outline  of  Michael's  story, 
and  the  cruel  irony  of  fate  in  having  made  him  himself 
leave  the  house  before  seeing  Sabine  struck  them  both. 

"What  can  her  reasons  have  been  for  not  telling  me 
all  this  time,  Father?"  the  unhappy  man  asked  at  last, 
in  a  hopeless  voice.     "Can  you  in  any  way  guess  ?" 

The  Pere  Anselme  mused  for  a  moment. 

"I  have  my  own  thoughts  upon  the  matter,  my  son. 
We  who  live  lonely  lives  very  close  to  Nature  get  into 
the  way  of  studying  tilings.  I  have,  as  I  told  you,  iimde 
some  deductions,  but,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  give  you 
some  counsel,  I  would  tell  you  to  go  back  to  the  cliatiiiu 
now,  with  no  parti  pris,  and  seek  her  iniinediatcly,  ""d 
get  her  to  tell  you  tlie  whole  tnilli  yourself.  Of  what 
good  for  you  and  me  to  speculate,  since  we  neither  of 
us  know  all  the  facts? — or  even,  if  our  sup|)osItionH  arc 

correct "    Then,  as  Lord  Fordycc  hesitated,  he  con- 

265 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

tinucd:  "The  time  has  passed  for  reticence.  There 
should  be  no  more  avoiding  of  feared  subjects.  Go,  go, 
my  son,  and  discover  the  entire  truth." 

"And  what  then !"  The  cry  came  from  Henry's 
agonized  heart.     But  the  priest  answered  gravely: 

"That  is  in  the  hand  of  God.     My  duty  is  done." 

And  so  they  returned  in  silence,  the  Pere  Anselme 
praying  fervently  to  himself.  And  when  they  reached 
the  house,  Lord  Fordyce  stumbled  up  the  stone  stairs 
heavily  and  knocked  at  the  door  of  Sabine's  sitting- 
room.  He  had  seen  Moravia  at  her  window  in  the  inner 
building,  and  knew  that  this  woman  who  held  his  life  in 
her  hand  would  be  alone. 

Then,  in  response  to  a  gentle  '^^Entrez^'  he  opened 
the  door  and  went  in. 

^  ^  ^  ^  ^  y^  7^ 

Sabine  had  been  sitting  at  her  writing-table,  an  open 
blue  despatch-box  at  her  side.  She  was  at  the  far  end 
of  the  great  apartment,  so  that  Henry  had  some  way 
to  go  toward  her  in  the  gloom,  as,  but  for  the  large 
lamp  near  her  and  the  blazing  wood  fire  at  each  end, 
there  was  no  light  in  the  vast  room.  She  rose  to  meet 
him,  a  gentle  smile  upon  her  face,  and  then,  when  he 
came  close  to  her,  she  realized  that  something  had  hap- 
pened, and  suddenly  put  her  hand  out  to  steady  her- 
self upon  the  back  of  a  chair. 

"Henry — what  is  it?"  she  said,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

266 


THE  MAN  AXD  THE  MOMENT 

"Come,  let  us  go  over  there  and  sit  down,"  and  she  drew 
him  to  the  same  sofa  where  that  very  morning  they  had 
sat  when  she  had  let  him  kiss  her.  This  thought  was 
extra  pain. 

He  was  so  very  quiet  he  frightened  her,  and  his  gray 
eyes  looked  into  hers  with  such  a  world  of  despair,  but 
no  reproach. 

"Sabine,"  he  commanded  in  a  voice  out  of  which  had 
vanished  all  life  and  hope,  "tell  me  the  whole  story,  my 
dear  love." 

She  clasped  her  hands  convulsively — so  the  dreaded 
moment  had  come !  There  would  be  no  use  in  making 
any  excuses  or  protestations,  her  duty  now  was  to  mas- 
ter herself  and  collect  her  words  to  tell  him  the  truth. 
The  utter  misery  in  his  noble  face  wrung  her  heart,  so 
that  her  voice  trembled  too  much  to  speak  at  first ;  then 
she  controlled  it  and  began. 


So  all  was  told  at  last. 

Then  Henry  took  her  two  cold  hands  again  and  drew 
her  up  with  him  as  he  rose. 

"Sabine,"  lie  said  with  deep  emotion,  his  heart  at 
})reaking  point,  but  all  thought  of  himself  put  aside  in 
the  supreme  unselfishness  of  his  worship;  "Saljinr,  to- 
morrow I  will  prove  to  you  what  true  love  means.  Hut 
now,  my  dearest,  I  will  say  gor  d-night.     I  think  I  must 

267 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

go  to  my  room  for  a  little ;  this  has  been  a  tremendous 
shock." 

He  bent  and  kissed  her  forehead  with  reverence  and 
blessing,  as  her  father  might  have  done,  and,  hiding  all 
further  emotion,  he  walked  steadily  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

<j  ji  M  »HEN  Lord  Fordyce  found  himself  alone,  it 
M  mj  I  felt  as  if  life  itself  must  leave  him,  the  agony 
of  pain  was  so  great,  the  fiendish  irony  of 
circumstances.  It  almost  seemed  that  each  time  he  had 
intended  to  do  a  good  thing,  he  had  been  punished.  He 
had  left  Arranstoun  for  the  best  motive,  and  so  had  not 
seen  Sabine  and  thus  saved  himself  from  future  pain ; 
he  had  taken  Michael  to  Heronac  out  of  kindly  friend- 
ship, and  this  had  robbed  him  of  his  happiness.  But, 
awful  as  the  discovery  was  now,  it  was  not  half  so  ter- 
rible as  it  would  have  been  if  the  truth  had  only  come 
to  him  later,  when  Sabine  had  become  his  wife.  He 
must  be  thankful  for  tliat.  Things  had  always  been 
inevitable ;  it  was  plain  to  be  understood  that  she  had 
loved  ^Michael  all  along,  and  nothing  ho  personally 
could  have  done  with  all  his  devotion  could  have  changed 
this  fact.  He  ought  to  have  known  that  it  was  hope- 
less and  that  he  was  only  living  in  a  fool's  paradise. 
Never  once  had  he  seen  the  light  in  her  eyes  for  him- 
self which  sprang  there  even  at  the  mention  of  Michael's 
name.     Wliat  was  this  tremendous  power  this  man  pos- 

269 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

sessed  to  so  deeply  affect  women,  to  so  greatly  charm 
every  one?  Was  it  just  "it,"  as  the  Princess  had  said? 
Anguish  now  fell  upon  Heni-y ;  there  was  no  consola- 
tion anywhere  to  be  found. 

He  went  over  again  all  the  details  of  the  story  he  had 
heard,  and  himself  filled  up  the  links  in  the  chain.  How 
brutal  it  was  of  Michael  to  have  induced  her  to  stay — 
even  if  she  remained  of  her  own  accord — and  then  the 
frightful  thoughtless  recklessness  of  letting  her  go  off 
afterwards  just  because  he  was  angry!  Wild  fury 
blazed  up  against  his  old  friend.  The  poor  darling 
little  girl  to  be  left  to  suffer  all  alone !  Oh !  how  tender 
and  passionately  devoted  he  would  have  been  under  the 
same  circumstances.  Would  Michael  ever  make  her 
happy  or  take  proper  care  of  her?  He  paced  his  room, 
his  mind  racked  with  pain.  Every  single  turn  of  events 
came  back  to  him,  and  his  own  incredible  blindness. 
How  had  he  been  so  unseeing?  How,  to  begin  with,  had 
he  not  recalled  the  name  of  Sabine  as  being  the  one  he 
had  read  long  ago  in  the  paper  as  that  of  the  girl  whom 
]\Iichael  had  gone  through  the  ceremony  of  marriage 
with?  It  had  faded  completely  from  his  memory. 
Everything  seemed  to  have  combined  to  lead  him  on'to 
predestined  disaster  and  misery — even  in  Sabine's  and 
Michael's  combining  to  keep  the  matter  secret  from  him 
not  to  cause  him  pain — all  had  augmented  the  suffer- 
ing now.  If — but  there  was  no  good  in  contemplating 
ifs — what  he  had  to  do  was  to  think  clearly  as  to  what 

270 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    .AIO^IENT 

would  be  the  wisest  course  to  secure  his  darhng's  hap- 
piness. That  must  be  his  first  consideration.  After 
that,  he  must  face  his  own  cruel  fate  with  what  courage 
he  could  command. 

Her  happiness  could  only  come  through  the  divorce 
proceedings  being  stopped  at  once,  and  in  her  being 
free  to  go  back  to  the  man  whom  she  loved.  Then  the 
aspect  that  Michael  had  been  willing  to  do  a  really  fine 
thing  for  the  sake  of  friendship  struck  him — perhaps 
he  was  worthy  of  Sabine,  after  all ;  and  they  were  young 
and  absolutely  suited  to  one  another.  No,  the  wicked- 
ness would  have  been  if  he,  whose  youth  had  passed, 
had  claimed  her  and  come  between.  He  was  only  now 
going  through  the  same  agony  his  friend  must  have 
done,  and  he  had  a  stronger  motive  to  help  him,  in  the 
wish  to  secure  the  joy  of  this  adored  woman,  whereas 
Michael  knew  he  was  condemning  her  to  sorrow  as  well 
as  himself,  and  had  been  strong  enough  to  do  it  simply 
from  honor  and  friendship.  No,  he  had  no  right  to 
think  of  him  as  brutal  or  not  fine;  and  now  it  was  for 
him,  Henry,  to  bring  back  happiness  to  his  darling  and 
to  his  old  friend. 

He  sat  down  in  a  chair  beside  the  fire  and  set  himself 
to  think.  To  have  to  take  some  decided  course  oamc 
as  a  relief.  He  would  go  out  into  the  village  and  tele- 
graph to  :Mlchael  to  come  to  Heronac  at  once.  He  was 
in  Paris,  staying  at  the  Ritz,  he  knew ;  he  could  be  there 
to-morrow — on  Christmas  Day !     Surely  that  was  well, 

271 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

when  peace  and  good-will  towards  men  should  be  over 
all  the  earth — and  he,  Henry,  would  meet  him  at  the 
house  of  the  Pere  Anselme  and  explain  all  to  him,  and 
then  take  him  back  to  Sabine.  He  would  not  see  her 
again  until  then. 

He  found  telegraph  forms  on  his  writing-table  and 
rapidly  wrote  out  his  message.  "Come  immediately  by 
first  train,  meet  me  at  house  of  Pere  Anselme,  a  matter 
of  gravest  importance  to  you  and  Sabine,"  and  he 
signed  it  "Fordyce."  Then  he  firmly  controlled  him- 
self and  went  off  with  it  into  the  night. 

The  cold  air  struck  his  face  and  confronted  him  with 
its  fierceness ;  the  wind  was  getting  up ;  to-morrow  the 
waves  would  again  be  rough. 

The  village  was  not  far  away,  and  he  soon  had 
reached  his  goal  and  sent  the  telegram.  Then  he 
stopped  at  the  preshytcre.  He  must  speak  once  more 
to  the  priest.  The  Pere  Anselme  led  him  in  to  his  bare 
little  parlor  and  drew  him  to  the  warm  china  stove.  It 
was  only  two  hours  since  they  had  parted,  but  Lord 
Fordyce  looked  like  an  old  man. 

"I  have  come  to  tell  you,  my  Father,"  he  said,  "that 
I  know  all  of  the  story  now,  and  it  is  terrible  enough ; 
but  I  want  you  to  help  me  to  secure  her  happiness. 
Michael  Arranstoun  is  her  husband,  as  you  supposed, 
and  she  loves  him."  The  old  priest  nodded  his  head 
comprehendingly,  and  Henry  went  on.  "They  only 
parted  to  save  me  pain.     It  was  a  tremendous  sacrifice 

272 


THE    AIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

which,  of  course,  I  cannot  accept.  So  now  I  have  sent 
for  him,  and  I  want  you  to  let  me  meet  him  here  at 
your  house,  and  explain  everything  to  him  to-morrow 
before  he  sees  her.  I  hope,  if  he  gets  my  telegram  in 
time,  he  will  catch  the  train  from  Paris  at  midnight  to- 
night ;  it  gets  in  about  nine  in  the  morning.  Then  tlicy 
can  be  happy  on  Christmas  Day." 

"You  have  done  nobly,  my  son,"  and  the  Pere  An- 
selme  lifted  his  hand  in  blessing.  "It  is  very  merciful 
that  this  has  been  in  time.  You  will  not  be  permitted 
to  suffer  beyond  your  strength  since  3'ou  have  done  well. 
The  good  God  is  beyond  all  things,  just.  My  home  is  at 
your  service —  And  how  is  she,  our  dear  Dame  d'He- 
ronac?    Does  she  know  that  her  husband  will  come?" 

"She  knows  nothing.  I  told  her  we  should  settle  all 
questions  to-morrow.  She  offered  to  keep  her  word  to 
me,  the  dear  child." 

"And  she  told  you  the  whole  story?  She  hud  the 
courage?  Yes?  That  was  fine  of  her,  because  she  has 
never  spoken  of  all  her  sorrows  directly,  even  to  me." 

"She  told  me  everything,  Father.  Tlnro  avf  no  se- 
crets any  more;  and  her  story  is  a  pitiful  one,  because 
she  was  so  young." 

"It  is  possible  it  has  been  well  for  thcin,"  flio  priest 
said  meditatively,  looking  into  the  glowing  fire  in  flio 
stove  whose  door  he  had  opened.  "Tlicy  wore  too  yonn^ 
and  undisciplined  at  first  for  haj)i)ines8— they  Imvc  conic 
through  so  much  suffering  now  they  will  ding  to  ench 

278 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

other  and  joy  and  not  let  it  slip  from  their  hands.  She 
is  more  suited  to  such  a  one  as  the  Seigneur  of  Arrans- 
toun  than  any  other — there  is  a  vigor  of  youth  in  her 
which  must  find  expression.  And  it  is  something  to  be 
of  noble  blood,  after  all."  Here  he  turned  and  looked 
contemplatively  at  Henry.  "It  makes  one  able  to  sur- 
mount anguish  and  remain  a  gentleman  with  manners, 
even  at  such  a  cruel  crisis  as  this.  You  have  all  my 
deep  understanding  and  sympathy,  my  son.  I,  too, 
have  passed  that  way,  and  know  your  pain.  But  con- 
solation will  come.  I  find  it  here  in  the  cure  of  souls — 
you  will  find  it  in  your  England,  leading  your  fellow 
countrymen  to  finer  ends.  It  is  not  for  all  of  us,  the 
glory  of  the  dawn  or  the  meridian,  but  we  can  all  se- 
cure a  sunset  of  blessed  peace  if  we  will."  And  then, 
as  Henry  wrung  his  thin  old  hand,  he  muttered  with 
tenderness,  "Good-night,  and  pax  vobiscum,'^  while  a 
moisture  glistened  in  his  keen  black  eyes. 

And  when  the  door  was  closed  upon  his  guest  he 
turned  back  into  his  little  room,  this  thought  going  on 
with  him : 

"A  great  gentleman — though  my  Dame  d'Heronac 
will  be  happier  with  the  fierce  one.  Youth  must  have 
its  day,  and  all  is  well." 

But  Henry,  striding  in  the  dark  with  the  sound  of 
the  rushing  sea  for  company,  found  no  consolation. 

When  he  got  back  to  the  chateau  and  was  going  up 
the  chief  staircase  to  his  room,  he  met  Moravia  coming 

274 


THE    ]\IAN    AND    THE    MO:\IENT 

down.  She  had  just  left  Sabine  and  knew  the  outhncs 
of  what  had  happened.  Her  astonishment  and  distress 
had  been  great,  but  underneath,  as  she  was  only  human, 
there  was  some  sense  of  personal  upliftment;  she  could 
try  to  comfort  the  disconsolate  lover  at  least.  Sabine 
had  given  her  to  understand  that  nothing  was  finally 
settled  between  herself  and  Henry,  but  IMoravia  felt 
there  could  be  only  one  end;  she  knew  he  was  too  un- 
selfish to  hold  Sabine  for  an  instant,  once  he  understood 
that  she  would  rather  be  free ;  so  it  was  in  the  character 
of  fond  friend  that  she  put  out  her  hand  and  grasped 
his  in  silent  sympathy. 

"Henry,"  she  whispered  with  tears  in  her  usually 
merry  eyes,  "my  heart  is  breaking  for  you.  Can  I  do 
anything?" 

He  would  rather  that  she  had  not  spoken  of  his  sor- 
row at  all,  being  a  singularly  reticent  person,  but  he 
was  touched  by  the  love  and  solicitude  in  her  face,  and 
took  and  held  her  white  fingers. 

"You  are  always  so  good  to  me.  But  there  is  noth- 
ing to  be  done," 

She  slid  her  other  hand  into  his  arm  and  drew  him 
on  into  the  little  sitting-room  which  was  always  set 
apart  for  her,  close  to  her  room. 

"I  am  going  to  take  care  of  you  for  the  next  hour, 
anyway — you  look  frozen,"  she  told  him.  "I  shall  make 
you  sit  in  the  big  chair  by  the  firo  wliilr  T  give  you 
something  to  drink.    It  is  only  half-past  six." 

275 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

Tlien  with  fond  severity  she  pushed  him  into  a 
comfortable  hergere,  and,  leaving  him,  gave  an  order 
to  her  maid  in  the  next  room  to  bring  some  brandy. 
But  before  it  came  Moravia  went  back  again,  and 
drawing  a  low  stool  sat  down  almost  at  Henry's 
feet. 

The  fire  and  her  gentleness  were  soothing  to  him,  as 
he  lay  there  huddled  in  the  chair.  The  physical  reac- 
tion was  upon  him  from  the  shock  and  he  felt  almost 
as  though  he  were  going  to  faint. 

Moravia  watched  him  anxiously  for  some  time  with- 
out speaking — he  was  so  very  pale.  Then  she  got  up 
quickly  when  the  maid  brought  in  the  tray,  and  pour- 
ing him  out  some  brandy  she  brought  it  over  and  knelt 
down  by  his  side. 

"Drink  this,"  she  commanded  kindly.  "I  shall  not 
stir  until  you  do." 

Henry  took  the  glass  with  nerveless  fingers  and  gulped 
down  the  liquid  as  he  was  bid,  but  although  she  took 
the  glass  from  him  she  did  not  get  off  her  knees ;  in- 
deed, when  she  had  pushed  it  on  to  the  tray  near  her, 
she  came  closer  still  and  laid  her  cheek  against  his  coat, 
taking  his  right  hand  and  chafing  it  between  her  own 
to  bring  back  some  life  into  him,  while  she  kept  up  a 
murmured  flow  of  sweet  sympathy — as  one  would  talk 
to  an  unhappy  child, 

Henry  was  not  actually  listening  to  her,  but  the 
warmth  and  the  great  vibrations  of  love  coming  from 

276 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    :\IO:\IENT 

her  began  to  affect  him  unconsciously,  so  that  he  slipped 
his  arm  round  her  and  drew  her  to  his  side. 

"Henry,"  she  whispered  with  a  little  gasp  in  her 
breath,  "I  would  take  all  pain  away  from  you,  dear,  if 
I  could,  but  I  can't  do  anything,  only  just  pet  and  love 
you  into  feeling  better.  After  all,  everything  passes  in 
time.  I  thought  I  should  never  get  over  the  death  of 
my  husband,  Girolamo,  and  now  I  don't  care  a  bit — in 
fact,  I  only  care  about  you  and  want  to  make  you  less 
unhappy." 

The  Princess  thoroughly  believed  in  La  Rochefou- 
cauld's maxim  with  the  advice  that  people  were  more 
likely  to  take  to  a  new  passion  when  still  agitated  by 
the  rests  of  the  old  one  than  if  they  were  completely 
cured.  She  intended,  now  that  she  was  released  from 
all  honor  to  her  friend,  to  do  her  very  uttermost  to 
draw  Henry  to  herself,  and  thought  it  much  wiser  to 
begin  to  strike  when  the  iron  was  hot. 

Henry  did  not  answer  her;  he  merely  pressed  her 
hand,  while  he  thought  how  un-English  lior  action  was, 
and  how  very  kind.  She  was  certainly  the  dearest  wom- 
an he  had  ever  met — beyond  Sabine. 

Moravia  was  not  at  all  discouraged,  but  continued  to 
rub  his  hands,  first  one  and  then  the  other,  while  he 
remained  passive  under  her  touch. 

"Sabine  is  perfectly  crushed  with  all  Ihis,"  she  went 
on.  "I  have  just  left  her.  She  does  not  know  wlmt 
you  mean  to  do,  but  I  am  sure  I  can  guess.     You  mean 

277 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOINIENT 

to  give  her  back  to  Mr.  Arranstoun — and  it  will  be 
much  better.  She  has  always  been  in  love  with  him,  I 
believe,  and  would  never  have  agreed  to  try  to  arrange 
for  a  divorce  if  she  had  not  been  awfully  jealous  about 
Daisy  Van  der  Horn.  I  remember  now  telling  her  quite 
innocently  of  the  reports  about  them  in  Paris  before 
we  went  to  England,  and  now  that  I  come  to  think  of 
it,  I  noticed  she  was  rather  spiteful  over  it  at  the  time." 

Henry  did  not  answer,  so  she  continued,  in  a  frank, 
matter-of-fact  way : 

"You  can  imagine  what  a  strange  character  Sabine 
has  when  I  tell  you,  in  all  these  years  of  our  intimate 
friendship  she  never  has  told  me  a  word  of  her  story 
until  just  now.  She  was  keeping  it  all  in  to  herself — 
I  can't  think  why." 

Henry  did  speak  at  last,  but  his  words  came  slowly. 
"She  wanted  to  forget,  poor  little  girl,  and  that  was 
the  best  way  to  bury  it  all  out  of  sight." 

"There  you  are  quite  wrong,"  returned  Moravia,  now 
seated  upon  her  footstool  again,  very  close,  with  her 
elbows  propped  on  Henry's  knees,  while  she  still  held 
his  hands  and  intermittently  caressed  them  with  her 
cheek.  "That  is  the  way  to  keep  hurts  burning  and 
paining  forever,  fostering  them  all  in  the  dark — it  is 
much  better  to  speak  about  them  and  let  the  sun  get  in 
on  them  and  take  all  their  sorrow  away.  That  is  why 
I  would  not  let  you  be  by  yourself  now,  dear  friend,  as 
I  suppose  one  of  your  reserved  countrymen  would  have 

278 


THE    ]MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

done.  I  just  determined  to  make  you  talk  about  it,  and 
to  realize  that  there  are  lots  of  lovely  other  tilings  to 
comfort  you,  and  that  you  are  not  all  alone." 

Henry  was  strangely  touched  at  her  kind  common 
sense ;  he  already  felt  better  and  not  so  utterly  crushed 
out  with  despair.  He  told  her  how  sweet  and  good  she 
was  and  what  a  true,  unselfish  woman — but  Moravia 
shook  her  head. 

"I  am  not  a  bit;  it  is  purely  interested,  because  I 
am  so  awfully  fond  of  you  myself.  I  lore  to  pet  you — 
there!"  and  she  laughed  softly,  so  happy  to  see  that 
she  had  been  able  even  to  make  this  slight  effect,  for  she 
saw  the  color  had  come  back  in  a  measure  to  his  face, 
and  her  keen  brain  told  her  that  this  was  the  right  tack 
to  go  upon — not  to  be  too  serious  or  show  any  senti- 
ment, but  just  to  use  a  sharp  knife  and  cut  round  all 
the  wound  and  then  pour  honey  and  balm  into  it  her- 
self. 

"You  and  Sabine  would  never  really  have  been  happy 
together,"  she  now  told  him,  "You  were  much  too  sul)- 
servient  to  her  and  let  her  order  you  about.  She  would 
have  grown  into  a  bully.  Now,  Mr.  Arranstoun  won't 
stand  a  scrap  of  nonsense,  I  am  sure ;  he  would  make 
any  woman  obey  him — if  necessary  by  using  bniff 
force!  They  are  perfectly  suited  to  one  another,  and 
very  soon  you  will  reali/.c  it  and  won't  care.  Do  yn\i 
remember  how  we  talked  at  dinner  tli/it  night  at  Kbbs- 
worth  about  women  having  to  go  through  a  stage  in 

279 


THE    ]MAN    AND    THE    IMOMENT 

their  lives  sooner  or  later  when  they  adored  just  strength 
in  a  man  and  wanted  a  master?  Well,  I  wondered  then 
if  Sabine  had  passed  hers,  but  I  was  afraid  of  hurting 
you,  so  I  would  not  say  that  I  rather  thought  she  had 
not." 

"Oh,  I  wish  you  had !"  Henry  spoke  at  last.  "And 
yet,  no — the  whole  thing  has  been  inevitable  from  the 
first,  I  see  it  plainly.  The  only  thing  is,  if  I  had  found 
it  out  sooner  it  might  have  saved  Sabine  pain.  But  it 
is  not  too  late,  thank  God — ^the  divorce  proceedings  can 
be  quashed ;  it  would  have  been  a  little  ironical  if  she  had 
had  to  marry  him  again." 

"Yes,"  Moravia  agreed.  "Now,  if  we  could  only  get 
him  to  come  here  immediately,  we  could  explain  it  all 
to  him  and  make  him  wire  to  his  lawyers  at  once." 

"I  have  already  sent  for  him — I  think  he  will  arrive 
to-morrow  at  nine." 

"How  glorious!  It  was  just  the  dear,  splendid  thing 
you  would  do,  Henry,"  Moravia  cried,  getting  up  from 
her  knees.  "But  we  won't  tell  Sabine;  we  will  just  let 
her  mope  there  up  in  her  room,  feeling  as  miserable  as 
she  deserves  to  be  for  not  knowing  her  own  mind.  We 
will  all  have  a  nice  dinner — no,  that  won't  be  it — you 
and  I  will  dine  alone  here,  up  in  this  room,  and  Papa 
can  talk  to  Madame  Imogen.  In  this  house,  thank 
goodness,  we  can  all  do  what  we  like,  and  I  am  not 
going  to  leave  you,  Henry,  until  we  have  got  to  say 
good-night.    I  don't  care  whether  you  want  me  or  not — 

280 


THE    IVIAN    AND    THE    MO^^IENT 

I  have  just  taken  charge  of  you,  and  I  mean  you  to  do 
what  I  wish — there!" 

And  she  crept  closer  to  him  again  and  laid  her  face 
upon  his  breast,  so  that  his  cheek  was  resting  upon  her 
soft  dark  hair.  Great  waves  of  comfort  flowed  to  Henry. 
This  sweet  woman  loved  him,  at  all  events.  So  he  put 
his  arm  round  her  again,  while  he  assured  her  he  did 
want  her,  and  that  she  was  an  angel,  and  other  such 
terms.  And  by  the  time  she  allowed  him  to  go  to  his 
room  to  dress  for  dinner,  a  great  measure  of  his  usual 
nerve  and  balance  was  restored.  She  had  not  given 
him  a  moment  to  think,  even  shaking  her  finger  at  him 
and  saying  that  if  he  was  more  than  twenty  minutes 
dressing,  she  would  herself  come  and  fetch  him  and 
bring  him  back  to  her  room. 

Then,  when  he  had  left  her,  this  true  daughter  of 
Eve,  after  ordering  dinner  to  be  served  to  them,  pro- 
ceeded to  make  herself  as  beautiful  as  possible  for  tlie 
next  scene.  She  felt  radiant.  It  was  enormous  what 
she  had  done. 

"Why,  he  was  on  the  verge  of  suicide  !'*  she  said  to 
herself,  "and  now  he  is  almost  ready  to  smile.  Ikfore 
the  evening  is  over  I  shall  have  made  him  kiss  nie — and 
l)efore  a  month  is  past  we  shall  be  engaged.  What  per- 
fect nonsense  to  have  silly  mawkish  sentiment  over  any- 
thing !    The  thing  to  do  is  to  win  one's  game." 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

HORD  FORDYCE  found  himself  dressing  in  the 
usual  way  and  with  the  usual  care,  such  crea- 
tures of  habit  are  we — and  yet,  two  hours 
earlier,  he  had  felt  that  life  was  over  for  him.  Al- 
though he  did  not  know  it,  Moravia  had  been  like  a 
strong  restorative  applied  at  the  right  moment,  and 
the  crisis  of  his  agony  had  gone  by.  It  was  not  that 
he  was  not  still  overcome  by  sorrow,  or  that  moments 
of  complete  anguish  would  not  recur,  but  the  current 
had  been  diverted  from  taking  a  fatal  turn,  and  grad- 
ually things  would  mend.  The  perfect,  practical  com- 
mon sense  of  Moravia  was  so  good  for  him.  She  was 
not  intellectual  like  Sabine,  she  was  just  a  dear,  beauti- 
ful, kind,  ordinary  woman,  extremely  in  love  with  him, 
but  too  truly  American  ever  to  lose  her  head,  and  now 
in  real  spirits  at  the  prospect  of  playing  so  delightful 
a  game.  She  was  thoroughly  versed  in  the  ways  of  male 
creatures,  and  although  she  possessed  none  of  Sabine's 
indescribable  charm,  she  had  had  numbers  of  admirers 
and  would-be  lovers  and  was  in  every  way  fitted  to  cope 
with  any  man.  This  evening,  she  had  determined  so  to 
soothe,  flatter  and  pet  Henry  that  he  should  go  to  bed 

282 


THE    ]VIAN    AND    THE    jMO^^IENT 

not  realizing  that  there  was  any  change  in  himself,  but 
should  be  in  reality  completely  changed.  Her  prepara- 
tions had  been  swift  but  elaborate.  She  had  rushed  to 
Madame  Imogen's  room,  and  got  her  to  take  special 
messages  to  the  chef,  and  dinner  would  be  waited  on  by 
her  own  maid — with  Nicholas  just  to  run  in  and  open 
the  champagne.  Then  she  selected  a  ravishing  rose- 
pink  chiffon  tea-gown,  all  lacy  and  fresh,  and  lastly  she 
had  a  big  fire  made  up  and  all  the  curtains  drawn,  and 
so  she  awaited  Henry's  coming  with  anticipations  of  de- 
light. She  had  even  got  Mr.  Cloudwater  (that  pcre 
aprivoise!)  to  mix  her  two  dry  Martini  cocktails,  whidi 
were  ready  for  her  guest. 

Henry  knocked  at  the  door  exactly  at  eight  o'clock, 
and  she  went  to  meet  him  with  all  the  air  of  authority 
of  a  mother,  and  led  him  into  the  room,  pushing  him 
gently  into  the  chair  she  had  prepared  for  liim.  A  in.m 
may  have  a  broken  heart — but  the  hurt  cannot  feel  so 
great  when  he  is  surrounded  with  every  comfort  and 
ministered  to  by  a  beautiful  young  woman,  wlio  is  not 
only  in  love  with  him,  but  has  the  nerve  to  keep  her 
head  and  not  neglect  a  single  point  which  can  be  of  use 
in  her  game. 

If  she  had  shown  him  too  much  sympathy,  or  just 
been  ultra-refined  and  silent  and  adoring,  Henry  hy 
this  time  would  have  been  quite  as  unhappy  as  ho  hud 
been  at  first;  but  he  was  too  courteous  by  nnfurc  not 
to  try  to  be  polite  and  appreciative  of  kln(hiess  when 

283 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    ]\IOMENT 

she  tendered  it  so  frankly,  no  matter  what  his  inward 
feelings  might  be — and  this  she  knew  she  could  count 
upon  and  meant  to  exploit.  She  argued  very  truly  that 
if  he  were  obliged  to  act,  it  would  brace  him  up  and  be 
beneficial  to  him,  even  though  at  the  moment  he  would 
much  prefer  to  be  alone.  So  now  she  made  him  drink 
the  cocktail,  and  then  she  deliberately  spoke  of  Sabine, 
wondering  if  she  would  be  awfully  surprised  to  see 
Michael,  and  if  he  would  take  her  back  with  him  to  Ar- 
ranstoun.  Henry  winced  at  every  word,  but  he  had  to 
answer,  and  presently  he  found  he  did  not  feel  so  sad. 
Then,  with  dexterity,  she  turned  the  conversation  to 
English  politics  and  got  him  to  explain  points  to  her, 
and  at  every  moment  she  poured  in  insidious  flattery 
and  frank,  kind  affection,  so  that  by  the  time  the  ice 
had  come,  Henry  had  begun  to  feel  unaccountably 
soothed.  She  was  really  a  beautiful  woman  and  ar- 
ranged with  a  wonderful  chic,  and  he  realized  that  she 
had  never  looked  more  charming  or  been  so  sweet.  She 
had  all  the  sense  of  power  being  on  her  side,  now  that 
she  had  a  free  hand,  unhampered  by  honor  to  her  friend, 
and  when  the  dessert  and  the  cigarettes  had  come,  she 
felt  that  she  might  indulge  in  a  little  sentiment. 

She  remembered  that  he  only  smoked  cigars,  and  got 
up  and  helped  him  to  light  one  of  his  own ;  and  when 
she  was  quite  close  to  him,  she  put  her  hand  out  and 
stroked  his  hair. 

"Even  if  he  does  not  like  it  at  first,"  she  told  herself, 

284 


THE    ]\IAN    AND    THE    M0:MENT 

"he  is  too  polite  to  say  so,  and  presently,  just  because 
he  is  a  man,  it  will  give  him  a  thrill." 

"I  do  love  your  light  hair,  Henry,"  she  said  aloud, 
"and  it  is  so  well  brushed.  You  Englishmen  are  cer- 
tainly soigne  creatures,  and  I  like  your  lazy,  easy 
grace — as  though  you  would  never  put  yourself  out  for 
any  one.  I  can't  bear  a  fuss."  She  puflFcd  her  cigarette 
and  did  not  wait  for  him  to  answer  her,  but  prattled 
on  perfectly  at  ease.  Even  his  courtesy  would  not  have 
prevented  him  from  snubbing  her,  if  she  had  been  the 
least  tentative  in  her  caressings,  or  the  least  diffidiiit. 
But  she  just  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  she  could 
stroke  his  hair  if  she  wanted  to,  and  presently  it  began 
to  give  him  a  sensation  of  pleasure  and  rest.  If  she 
had,  by  word  or  look,  suggested  that  she  expected  some 
return,  Henry  would  have  frozen  at  once — but  all  she 
did  was  apparently  only  to  please  herself,  and  so  he 
had  no  defense  to  make.  Still  in  the  character  of  do- 
mestic tyrant,  she  presently  led  him  to  the  comfortable 
arm-chair,  and  once  more  seated  herself  upon  the  stool 
close  to  the  fire  by  his  side.  Here  she  was  silent  for  a 
few  moments,  letting  the  comfort  of  llir  whole  scene 
sink  in  to  his  brain — and  then,  when  the  maid  came  in 
to  clear  away  the  dinner-table,  she  got  up  and  went  to 
the  piano,  where  she  played  some  soft,  but  not  senti- 
mental tunes.  Music  of  a  certain  sort  would  bo  the 
worst  thing  for  him,  but  a  light  air  while  Marie  \\t\<~  \\\ 
the  room  could  do  no  harm.     Though,  wlien  .she  went 

285 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

over  close  to  him  again,  she  saw  that  even  this  pause 
had  allowed  him  time  to  think,  and  that  his  face  was 
once  more  overcome  by  melancholy,  although  he 
greeted  her  with  a  smile. 

Something  further  must  be  done. 

"Henry,"  she  said,  cooingly,  kneeling  down  beside 
him  and  taking  his  hand,  "will  you  promise  me  some- 
thing, please.  I  am  not  clever  like  you,  but  I  do  know 
one  splendid  recipe  for  taking  away  pain ;  every  time 
the  thought  of  Sabine  comes  up  to  you  and  the  old  pic- 
tures you  used  to  hold,  look  them  squarely  in  the  face, 
and  then  deliberately  replace  them  with  others  that 
you  can  obtain — the  strange  law  of  periodicity  will  be 
in  motion  and,  if  you  have  only  will  enough,  gradually 
the  pictures  that  can  be  yours  will  unconsciously  have 
taken  the  place  of  the  old  ones  which  have  caused  you 
pain.  Is  it  not  much  better  to  do  that  than  just  to 
let  yourself  grieve — surely  it  is  more  like  a  man?" 

Henry  looked  at  her,  a  little  startled.  This  idea  had 
never  presented  itself  to  him.  Yes,  it  was  certainly 
more  like  a  man  to  try  any  measure  than  "just  to 
grieve,"  and  what  if  there  should  be  some  truth  in  this 
suggestion — ?  What  did  the  "law  of  periodicity"  mean? 
What  an  American  phrase !  How  apt  they  were  at  coin- 
ing expressive  sentences.  He  looked  into  the  glowing 
ashes — there  he  seemed  to  see  in  ruins  the  whole  fabric 
of  his  dreams — ^but  if  there  was  a  law  which  brought 
thoughts  back,  and  back  again  at  the  same  hour  each 

286 


THE    JMAN    AND    THE    MO:^IENT 

day,  then  Moravia  was  right :  he  must  blot  out  the  old 
pictures  and  conjure  up  new  ones — but  what  could 
they  be ? 

"You  are  musing,  Henry,"  Moravia's  voice  went  on. 
"Are  you  thinking  over  what  I  said?  I  hope  so,  and 
you  will  find  it  is  true.  See,  I  will  tell  you  what  to 
visualize  there  in  the  fire.  You  are  looking  at  a  splen- 
did English  home,  all  peace  and  warmth,  and  you  see 
yourself  in  it  happy  and  surrounded  by  friends.  And 
you  see  yourself  a  great  man,  the  center  of  political 
interest,  and  everything  coming  toward  you  that  heart 
can  desire.  It  is  awfully  wanting  in  common  sense  to 
think  because  you  cannot  obtain  one  woman  there  are 
none  others  in  the  world." 

"Awfully,"  agreed  Henry — suddenly  taking  in  the 
attractive  picture  she  made,  seated  there  at  his  knees, 
her  white  hand  holding  his  hand.  Ills  thoughts  wan- 
dered for  a  moment,  as  thought  will  do  when  the  mind 
is  overstrained;  they  wandered  to  the  speculation  of 
why  American  women  should  have  such  small  niid  white 
hands,  and  then  he  brought  himself  back  to  the  actual 
conversation. 

"You  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  said,  "that  if  every  time 
I  remember,  when  I  am  dwelling  upon  the  sulgcct  which 
pains  me,  that  I  must  make  my  thoughts  turn  lo  other 
things  which  give  me  pleasure,  that  gnulually  the  new 
thoughts   will   banish   the   old?" 

"Of  course,  I  mean  that,"  Moravia  told  him.    "Evcry- 

287 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

thing  comes  in  cycles ;  that  is  why  people  get  into  hab- 
its. You  just  try,  Henry;  you  can  cure  the  habit  of 
pain  as  easily  as  you  can  cure  any  habit.  It  is  all  a 
question  of  will." 

She  saw  that  she  had  created  interest  in  his  eyes, 
and  re j  oiced.  That  crisis  had  passed !  and  it  would  be 
safe  to  go  on. 

"I  shall  not  get  him  to  kiss  me  to-night,  after  all," 
she  decided  to  herself.  "If  I  did,  he  would  probably 
feel  annoyed  to-morrow,  with  some  ridiculous  sense  of 
a  too  sudden  disloyalty  to  Sabine's  memory — and  he 
might  be  huffed  with  liimself,  too,  thinking  he  had  given 
way ;  it  might  wound  his  vanity.  I  shall  just  draw  him 
right  out  and  make  him  want  to  kiss  me,  but  not  con- 
sciously— and  then  it  will  be  safe  when  he  is  at  that 
pitch  to  let  him  go  off  to  bed." 

This  plan  she  proceeded  to  put  into  practice.  She 
exploited  the  subject  they  had  been  talking  of  to  its 
length,  and  aroused  a  sharp  discussion  and  argument — 
while  she  took  care  to  place  herself  in  the  most  allur- 
ing attitudes  as  close  to  Henry  as  she  possibly  could 
be,  while  maintaining  a  basis  of  frank  friendship,  and 
then  she  changed  the  current  by  getting  him  to  explain 
to  her  exactly  what  he  had  done  about  Michael,  and 
how  they  should  arrange  the  meeting  between  the  two, 
putting  into  her  eagerness  all  the  sparkle  that  she 
would  have  used  in  collaborating  with  him  over  the 
placing  of  the  presents  upon  a  Christmas  tree — until, 

288 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    INIOMENT 

at  last,  Henry  began  to  take  some  sort  of  pride  in  the 
thing  itself. 

"I  want  you  to  let  Sabine  think  you  are  just  goincr 
to  forgive  her  for  her  deception,  but  intend  her  to  keep 
her  word  to  you ;  and  then  you  can  take  Mr.  Ar- 
ranstoun  up  to  her  sitting-room  when  you  have  brouo-ht 
him  from  the  Pere  Anselme's — and  just  push  him  in 
and  let  them  explain  matters  themselves.  Won't  it  be 
a  moment  for  them  both!" 

Henry  writhed. 

"Yes,"  he  gasped,  "a  great  moment.'-' 

"And  you  are  not  going  to  care  one  bit,  Henry," 
Moravia  went  on,  with  authority.  "I  tell  you,  you 
are  not." 

Then,  having  made  all  clear  as  to  their  joint  action 
upon  the  morrow,  she  spent  the  last  half  hour  before 
they  parted  in  instilling  into  his  spirit  every  sort  of 
comfort  and  subtle  flattery  until,  when  the  clock  struck 
eleven,  Henry  felt  a  sense  of  regret  that  lie  nuist  say 
good-night. 

By  this  time,  her  head  was  within  a  few  inches  of  his 
shoulder,  and  her  pretty  eyes  were  gazing  info  his  with 
the  adoring  affection  of  a  child. 

"You  are  an  absolute  darling,  Moravia,"  he  nnir- 
murcd,  with  some  emotion,  "the  kindest  wonum  in  this 
world,"  and  he  bent  and  kissed  her  hair. 

She  showed  no  surprise — to  take  the  caress  naturally 
would,  she  felt,  leave  him  with  the  pleasure  of  it,  and 

289 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

arouse  no  disturbing  analjzations  in  his  mind  as  to 
its  meaning. 

"Now  you  have  got  to  go  right  off  to  your  httle 
bed,"  she  said,  in  a  matter  of  fact  'mother'  tone,  "and 
I  should  just  Hke  to  come  and  tuck  you  up,  and  turn 
your  hght  out — but  as  I  can't,  you'll  promise  me  you 
will  do  it  yourself  at  once — and  close  those  eyes  and  go 
to  sleep."  Here  she  permitted  herself  softly  to  shut 
his  lids  with  her  smooth  fingers. 

Henry  felt  a  delicious  sense  of  comfort  and  peace 
creeping  over  him — he  knew  he  did  not  wish  to  leave  her 
— but  he  got  up  and  took  both  her  hands. 

"Good-night,  you  sweet  lady,"  he  said.  "You  will 
never  know  how  your  kind  heart  has  helped  me  to-night, 
nor  can  I  express  my  gratitude  for  your  spontaneous 
sympathy,"  with  which  he  kissed  the  fair  hands,  and 
went  regretfully  toward  the  door. 

Moravia  thought  this  the  right  moment  to  show  a 
little  further  sentiment. 

"Good-night,  Henry,"  she  faltered.  "It  has  been 
rather  heaven  for  me — ^but  I  don't  think  I'll  let  you 
dine  up  here  alone  with  me  again — it — it  might  make  my 
heart  ache,  too."  And  then  she  dexterously  glided  to  the 
door  of  her  bed-room  and  slipped  in,  shutting  it  softly. 

And  Henry  found  himself  alone,  with  some  new  fire 
running  in  his  veins. 

When  Moravia,  listening,  heard  his  footsteps  going 
down  the  passage,  she  clasped  her  hands  in  glee. 

290 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

"I  *shall  never  know'!  'My  spontaneous  sympa- 
thy' ! —  Oh !  the  darling,  Innocent  babe !  But  I've  won 
the  game.  He  will  belong  to  me  now — and  I  shall  make 
him  happy.  Ouida  was  most  certainly  right  when  she 
said,  'Men  are  not  vicious  ;  they  are  but  children.'  " 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

VERY  early  on  Christmas  morning,  Lord  For- 
djce  went  down  to  the  preshytere  and  walked 
with  the  Pere  Anselme  on  his  way  to  Mass. 
He  had  come  to  a  conclusion  during  the  night.  The 
worthy  priest  would  be  the  more  fitting  person  to  see 
Michael  than  he,  himself;  he  felt  he  could  well  leave  all 
explanations  in  those  able  hands — and  then,  when  his 
old  friend  knew  everything,  he,  Henry,  would  meet  him 
and  bring  him  to  the  Chateau  of  Heronac,  and  so  to 
Sabine. 

The  Pere  Anselme  was  quite  willing  to  undertake 
this  mission;  he  would  have  returned  to  his  breakfast 
by  then  and  would  await  Michael's  arrival,  he  told 
Henry.  Michael  would  come  from  the  station,  twenty 
kilometers  away,  in  Henry's  motor. 

The  wind  had  got  up,  and  a  gloriously  rough  sea 
beat  itself  against  the  rocks.  The  thundering  surf 
seemed  some  comfort  to  Henry.  He  was  unconscious 
of  the  fact  that  he  felt  very  much  better  than  he  had 
ever  imagined  that  he  could  feel  after  such  a  blow. 
Moravia's  maneuvrings  and  sweet  sympathy  had  been 

292 


THE    IVIAN    AND    THE    IMOMENT 

most  effective,  and  Henry  had  fallen  asleep  while  her 
spell  was  still  upon  him — and  only  awakened  after 
several  hours  of  refreshing  slumber.  Then  it  was  he 
decided  upon  the  plan,  which  he  put  into  execution  as 
soon  as  daylight  came.  Now  he  left  the  old  priest  at 
the  church  door  and  strode  away  along  the  rough 
coast  road,  battling  with  the  wind  and  trying  to  con- 
quer his  thoughts. 

He  was  following  Moravia's  advice,  and  replacing 
each  one  of  pain  as  it  came  with  one  of  pleasure — and 
the  cold  air  exhilarated  his  blood. 

Michael,  meanwhile,  in  the  slow,  unpleasant  trriin, 
was  a  prey  to  anxiety  and  speculation.  What  had 
happened.''  There  was  no  clue  in  Henry's  dry  words 
in  the  telegram.  Had  there  been  some  disaster?  Was 
Henry  violently  angry  with  him?  What  would  their 
meeting  bring?  He  had  come  in  to  the  Ritz  from  a 
dinner  party,  and  had  got  the  telegram  just  in  time 
to  rush  straight  to  the  station  with  a  hastily-packed 
bag,  and  get  into  an  almost-moving  train,  and  all  night 
long  he  had  wondered  and  wondered,  as  he  sat  in  the 
corner  of  his  carriage.  But  whatever  had  happened 
was  a  relief — it  produced  action.  He  had  no  longer 
just  to  try  to  kill  time  and  stifle  thought ;  lie  could  do 
something  for  good  or  ill. 

It  seemed  as  though  he  would  never  arrive,  as  the 
hours  wore  on  and  dawn  faded  into  (hiylight.  Then, 
at  last,  the  crawling  engine  drew  iij)  at  his  destination, 

293 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

and  he  got  out  and  recognized  Henry's  chauffeur  wait- 
ing for  him  on  the  platform.  The  swift  rush  through 
the  cold  air  refreshed  him,  and  took  away  the  fatigue 
of  tlie  long  night — and  soon  they  had  drawn  up  at  the 
door  of  the  preshytere,  and  he  found  himself  being 
shown  by  the  priest's  ancient  housekeeper  into  the  spot- 
lessly clean  parlor. 

The  Pere  Anselme  j  oined  him  in  a  moment,  and  they 
silently  shook  hands. 

"You  are  not  aware,  sir,  why  you  have  been  sent 
for,  I  suppose?"  the  priest  asked,  with  his  mild  cour- 
tesy. "Pray  be  seated,  there  by  the  stove,  and  I  wiE 
endeavor  to  enlighten  you." 

Michael  sat  down. 

"Please  tell  me  everything,"  he  said. 

The  Pere  Anselme  spread  out  his  thin  hands  toward 
the  warmth  of  the  china,  while  he  remained  standing 
opposite  his  visitor. 

"The  good  God  at  last  put  it  into  the  mind  of  the 
Lord  Fordyce  that  our  Dame  d'Heronac  has  not  been 
altogether  happy  of  late — and  upon  my  suggestion  he 
questioned  her  as  to  the  cause  of  this,  and  learned  what 
I  believe  to  be  the  truth — which  you,  sir,  can  corrobo- 
rate— namely,  that  you  are  her  husband  and  are  obtain- 
ing the  divorce  not  from  desire,  but  from  a  motive  of 
loyalty  to  your  friend." 

"That  is  the  case,"  assented  Michael  quietly,  a  sud- 
den great  joy  in  his  heart. 

294 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

The  priest  was  silent,  so  he  went  on: 

"And  what  does  Lord  Fordyce  mean  to  do? — release 
her  and  give  her  back  to  me — or  what,  mon  Pere?" 

"Is  it  necessary  to  ask?"  and  Pere  Ansehne  lifted 
questioning  and  almost  whimsical  eyebrows.  "Surely 
you  must  know  that  your  friend  is  a  gentleman !" 

"Yes,  I  know  that — but  it  must  mean  the  most  awful 
suffering  to  him — poor,  dear  old  Henry — Is  he  quite 
knocked  out?" 

"The  good  God  tries  no  one  beyond  his  strength — 
he  will  find  consolation.  But,  meanwhile,  it  will  be 
well  that  you  let  me  offer  you  the  hospitality  of  my 
poor  house  for  rest  and  refreslmient" — here  the  old 
man  made  a  courtly  bow — "and  when  you  have  eaten 
and  perhaps  bathed,  you  can  take  the  road  to  the 
Chateau  of  Heronac,  where  you  will  find  Lord  Fordyce 
by  the  garden  wall,  and  he  will  perhaps  take  you  to 
Madame  Sabine.  That  is  as  he  may  think  wisest — I 
believe  she  is  quite  unprepared.  Of  the  reception  you 
are  likely  to  receive  from  her  you  are  the  best  judge 
yourself." 

"It  seems  too  good  to  be  true !"  cried  Mich.ul,  sud- 
denly covering  his  face  with  his  hands.  "We  have  all 
been  through  an  awful  time,  mon  Pere.'* 

"So  it  would  seem.  It  is  not  the  moment  ft)r  me  to 
tell  you  that  you  drew  it  all  upon  yourselves — since 
the  good  God  has  seen  fit  to  restore  you  to  hap- 
piness." 

295 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

"I  drew  it  upon  us,"  protested  Michael.  "You  know 
the  whole  story,  Father?" 

The  old  priest  coughed  sliglitly. 

"I  know  most  of  it,  my  son.  In  it,  you  uo  not  al- 
together shine " 

Michael  got  up  from  his  chair,  while  he  clasped  his 
hands  forcibly. 

"No,  indeed,  I  do  not — I  know  I  have  been  an  un- 
speakable brute — I  have  not  tlie  grain  of  an  excuse  to 
offer — and  yet  she  has  forgiven  me.  Women  are  cer- 
tainly angels,  are  they  not,  mon  Pere?" 

The  Cure  of  Heronac  sighed  gently. 

"Angels  when  they  love,  and  demons  when  they  hate 
• — of  an  unbalance — but  a  great  charm.  It  lies  with 
us  men  to  decide  the  feather-weight  which  will  make 
the  scale  go  either  way  with  them — to  heaven  or  hell." 

Here  the  ancient  housekeeper  announced  that  coffee 
and  rolls  were  ready  for  them  in  the  other  room,  and 
the  Pere  Anselme  led  the  way  without  further  words. 

Less  than  an  hour  later,  the  two  men  who  loved  this 
one  woman  met  just  over  the  causeway,  where  Henry 
awaited  Michael's  coming.  It  was  a  difficult  moment 
for  them  both,  but  they  clasped  hands  with  a  few  ordi- 
nary words.  Henry's  walk  in  the  wind  had  strength- 
ened his  nerves.  For  some  reason,  he  was  now  con- 
scious that  he  was  feeling  no  acute  pain  as  he  had 
expected  that  he  would  do,  and  that  there  was  even 
some  kind  of  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that,  on  this 

296 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MO:\IENT 

Christmas  morning,  he  was  able  to  bring  great  happi- 
ness to  Sabine.  He  could  not  help  remarking,  as  tiiey 
crossed  the  drawbridge,  that  Michael  looked  a  most 
suitable  mate  for  her:  he  was  such  a  picture  of  superb 
health  and  youth.  As  they  entered  the  courtyard, 
Moravia  and  her  little  son  came  out  of  the  main  door. 

The  Princess  greeted  them  gaily.  She  was  going  to 
show  Girolamo  the  big  waves  from  the  causeway  bridge 
before  going  on  to  church ;  they  had  a  good  half-hour. 
She  experienced  no  surprise  at  seeing  Michael,  only 
asking  about  his  night  journey's  uncomfortablcness, 
and  then  she  turned  to  Henry: 

"Come  and  join  us  there  by  the  high  parapet,  Henry, 
as  soon  as  you  have  taken  Mr.  Arranstoun  up  to  Sa- 
bine. She  has  not  come  out  of  her  wing  j'et;  but  I 
know  that  she  is  dressed  and  in  her  sitting-room,"  and 
smiling  merrily,  she  took  Girolanio's  little  hand  anil 
went  her  way. 

There  was  no  sound  when  the  two  men  reached  Sa- 
bine's sitting-room  door.  Henry  knocked  gently,  but 
no  answer  came;  so  he  opened  it  and  looked  in.  Great 
fires  burned  in  the  wide  chimneys  and  his  flowers  gave 
forth  sweet  scent,  but  the  Lady  of  Hcronac  was  absent, 
or  so  it  seemed. 

"Come  in,  Michael,  and  wait,"  Henry  said;  and 
then,  from  the  embrasure  of  the  far  window,  they  heard 
a  stifled  exclamation,  and  saw  that  Sabine  u;is  indud 
there  after  all,  and  had  risen  from  the  floor,  wiierc  she 

297 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

had  been  kneeling  by  the  window-seat  looking  out  upon 
the  waves. 

Her  face  was  deadly  pale  and  showed  signs  of  a 
night's  vigil,  but  when  she  cauglit  sight  of  Michael  it 
was  as  though  the  sun  had  emerged  from  a  cloud,  so 
radiant  grew  her  eyes.  She  stood  quite  still,  waiting 
until  they  advanced  near  to  her  down  the  long  room, 
and  then  she  steadied  herself  against  the  back  of  a  tall 
chair, 

"Sabine,"  Henry  said,  "I  want  you  to  be  very 
happy  on  this  Christmas  day,  and  so  I  have  brought 
your  husband  back  to  you.  All  these  foolish  divorce 
proceedings  are  going  to  be  stopped,  and  you  and  he 
can  settle  all  your  differences,  together,  dear — "  then, 
as  a  glad  cry  forced  itself  from  Sabine's  lips — his  voice 
broke  with  emotion.  She  stretched  out  her  hands  to 
him,  and  he  took  one  and  drew  her  to  Michael,  who 
stood  behind  him. 

Then  he  took  also  his  old  friend's  hand,  and  clasped 
it  upon  Sabine's, 

"I  am  not  much  of  a  churchman,"  he  said,  hoarsely. 
*'but  this  part  of  the  marriage  service  is  true,  I  expect, 
*Those  whom  God  hath  joined  together  let  no  man  put 
asunder,'  "  Then  he  dropped  their  hands,  and  turned 
toward  the  door. 

"Oh !  Henry,  you  are  so  good  to  us !"  Sabine  cried. 
No  words  can  say  what  I  feel." 

But  Lord  Fordyce  could  bear  no  more — ^and  mur- 

298 


<( 


THE    AIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

muring  some  kind  of  blessing,  he  got  from  the  room, 

leaving  the  two  there  in  the  embrasure  of  the  great 

window  gazing  into  each  other's  ejes. 
As  the  door  shut,  Michael  spoke  at  last : 
"Sabine— My  own !"  he  whispered,  and  held  out  his 

arms. 

*****♦♦ 

When  Henry  left  Sabine's  sitting-room,  he  stao-frcrcd 
down  the  stairs  like  one  bhnd — the  poignant  anguish 
had  returned,  and  the  mantle  of  comfort  fell  from  his 
shoulders.  He  was  human,  after  all,  and  the  picture 
of  the  rapture  on  the  faces  of  the  two,  showing  him 
what  he  had  never  obtained,  stabbed  him  like  a  knife. 
He  felt  that  he  would  willingly  drop  over  the  causeway 
bridge  into  the  boihng  sea,  and  finish  all  the  pain. 
He  saw  Moravia's  blue  velvet  dress  in  the  distance  down 
the  road  when  he  left  the  lodge  gates,  and  he  fled  into 
the  garden ;  he  must  be  alone — but  she  had  scon  him  go, 
and  knew  that  another  crisis  had  come  and  that  she 
must  conquer  this  time  also.  So  apparently  only  for 
the  gratification  of  Girolamo,  she  turned  and  entered 
the  garden — the  garden  which  seemed  to  be  a  pro- 
destined  spot  for  the  stratagems  of  lovers ! — then  she 
strolled  toward  the  sea-wall,  not  turning  Imt  lic.ul  in 
the  direction  where  she  plainly  perceived  Henry  bad 
gone,  but  taking  care  that  Girolamo  shouhl  sec  him,  ns 
she  knew  he  would  run  to  him.  This  he  iinnicdiately 
did,  and  dragged  his  victim  back  to  his  nu)tlR'r  in  the 

209 


THE    ISIAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

pavilion  which  looked  out  over  the  sea.  Girolamo  was 
now  three  j^ears  old  and  a  considerable  imp ;  he  dis- 
played Henry  proudly  and  boasted  of  his  catch — while 
Moravia  scolded  him  sweetly  and  asked  Henry  to  for- 
give them  for  intruding  upon  his  solitude. 

"You  know  I  understand  you  must  want  to  be  alone, 
dear  friend,  and  I  would  not  have  come  if  I  had  seen 
you,"  she  said,  tenderly,  while  she  turned  and,  leaning 
out,  beckoned  to  the  nurse,  whom  she  could  just  sec 
across  the  causeway  on  the  courtyard  wall,  where  the 
raised  parapet  was.  Then  allowing  her  feelings  to 
overcome  her  judgment,  she  flung  out  her  arms  and 
seizing  Henry's  hands,  she  drew  them  into  her  warm, 
huge  muff. 

"Henry — I  can't  help  it — !"  she  gasped.  "It  breaks 
my  heart  to  see  you  so  cold  and  white  and  numb — I  want 
to  warm  and  comfort  and  love  you  back  to  life 
again !" 

At  this  minute,  the  sun  burst  through  the  scudding 
clouds,  and  blazed  in  upon  them  from  the  archway ;  and 
it  seemed  to  Henry  as  if  a  new  vitality  rushed  into  his 
frozen  veins.  She  was  so  human  and  pretty,  and  young 
and  real.  Love  for  him  spoke  from  her  sparkling,  brown 
eyes.  The  ascendancy  she  had  obtained  over  him  on 
the  previous  evening  returned  in  a  measure ;  he  no  longer 
wanted  to  get  away  from  her  and  be  alone. 

He  made  some  murmuring  reply,  and  did  not  seek 
to  draw  away  his  hands — but  a  sudden  change  of  feel- 

300 


THE  jman  and  the  :\iomext 

ing  seemed  to  come  over  Moravia  for  she  lowered  her 
head  and  a  deep,  pink  flush  grew  in  her  cheeks. 

"What  will  jou  think  of  me,  Henry  ?"  she  whispered, 
pulling  at  his  grasp,  which  grew  firmer  as  she  tried  to 
loosen  it.  "I" — and  then  she  raised  her  ejes,  which  were 
suifused  with  tears.  "Oh!  it  seems  such  horrid  waste 
for  you  to  be  sick  with  grief  for  Sabine,  who  is  happy 
now — and  that  only  I  must  grieve " 

Girolamo  had  seen  his  nurse  entering  the  far  gate 
and  was  racing  off  to  meet  her,  so  that  they  were  quite 
alone  in  the  pavilion  now,  and  Moravia's  words  and  the 
tears  in  her  fond  eyes  had  a  tremendous  effect  upon 
Henry.  It  moved  some  unknown  cloud  in  his  emotions. 
She,  too,  wanted  comfort,  not  he  alone — and  he  could 
bring  it  to  her  and  be  soothed  in  return,  so  he  drew 
her  closer  and  closer  to  him,  and  framed  her  face  in  his 
hands. 

"Moravia,"  he  said,  tenderly.  "You  shall  not  grieve, 
dear  child —  If  3'ou  want  me,  take  me,  and  I  will  give 
you  all  the  devotion  of  true  friendship — and,  who  knows, 
perhaps  we  shall  find  the  Indian  summer,  after  all,  now 
that  the  gates  of  my  fool's  paradise  are  shut." 

In  the  abstract,  it  was  not  higlily  gratifying  to  a 
woman's  vanity,  this  declaration!  but,  as  a  matlt-r  of 
fact,  it  was  beyond  Moravia's  wildest  liopes.  She  had 
not  a  single  doubt  in  her  astute  Aiiicricaii  mind  that, 
once  she  should  have  the  right  to  the  society  «>f  Ilmry 
— with  her  knowledge  of  the  ways  of  man — that  she 

301 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

would  soon  be  able  to  obliterate  all  regrets  for  Sabine, 
and  draw  his  affections  completely  to  herself. 

At  this  juncture,  she  showed  a  stroke  of  genius. 

"Henrj,"  she  said,  her  voice  vibrating  with  profound 
feeling,  "I  do  want  you — more  than  anything  I  have 
ever  wanted  in  my  life — and  I  will  make  you  forget  all 
your  hurts — in  my  arms." 

There  was  certainly  nothing  left  for  Lord  Fordyce, 
being  a  gallant  gentleman,  to  do  but  to  stoop  his  tall 
head  and  kiss  her — and,  to  his  surprise,  he  found  this 
duty  turn  into  a  pleasure — so  that,  in  a  few  moments, 
when  they  were  close  together  looking  out  upon  the 
waves  through  the  pavilion's  wide  windows,  he  encir- 
cled her  with  his  arm — and  then  he  burst  into  a  laugh, 
but  though  it  was  cynical,  it  contained  no  bitterness. 

"Moravia — you  are  a  witch,"  he  told  her.  "Here  is 
a  situation  that,  described,  would  read  like  pathos — 
and  yet  it  has  made  us  both  happy.  Half  an  hour  ago, 
I  was  wishing  I  might  step  over  into  that  foam — and 
now " 

"And  now?"  demanded  the  Princess,  standing  from 
him. 

"And  now  I  realize  that,  with  the  New  Year,  there 
may  dawn  new  joys  for  me.     Oh!  my  dear,  if  you  will 
be  content  with  what  I  can  give  you,  let  us  be  married 
soon  and  go  to  India  for  the  rest  of  the  winter." 
«  $  «  ^  «  ^  ^ 

The  Pere  Anselme  noticed  that  his  only  congregation 

302 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

from  the  Chateau  consisted  of  Mr.  Cloudwater  and 
Madame  Imogen;  and  he  thanked  the  good  God— as  he 
sent  up  a  fervent  prayer  for  the  absentees'  happiness. 

"It  means  that  thej  two  are  near  heaven,  and  that 
consolation  will  come  to  the  disconsolate  one,  since  all 
four  remain  at  home,"  he  told  himself.  This  was  a  de- 
nouement worthy  of  Christmas  Day,  and  of  far  more 
value  in  his  eyes  than  the  two  pairs'  mere  presence  in 
his  church. 

"The  ways  of  the  good  God  are  marvclloua,"  he 
mused,  as  he  went  to  his  vestry,  "and  it  is  fitting  that 
youth  should  find  its  mate.  We  grieve  and  wring  our 
hearts — and  nothing  is  final — and  while  there  is  life 
there  is  hope — that  love  may  bloom  again.  Peace  be 
with  them." 


CHAPTER    XXV 

*-f«— wp^BT*  HEN  the  first  moment  of  ecstasy  in  the 
M  MJ  I  knowledge  that  they  were  indeed  given  back 
to  each  other  was  over,  Michael  drew  Sa- 
bine to  the  window  seat  where  she  had  been  crouching 
only  that  short  while  before  in  silent  misery. 

"Sweetheart,"  he  entreated,  "now  you  have  got  to 
tell  me  everything — do  you  understand,  Sabine — every 
single  thing  from  the  first  moment  in  the  chapel  when 
we  made  those  vows  until  now  when  we  are  going  to 
keep  them.  I  want  to  know  everything,  darling  child 
— all  your  thoughts  and  what  you  did  with  your  life 
— and  when  you  hated  me  and  when  you  loved  me " 

They  sat  down  on  the  velvet  cushions  and  Sabine 
nestled  into  his  arms. 

"It  is  so  difficult,  Michael,"  she  cooed,  "how  can  I 
begin?  I  was  sillier  and  more  ignorant  than  any  other 
girl  of  seventeen  could  possibly  be,  I  think — don't  you? 
Oh!  don't  let  us  speak  of  that  part — I  only  remem- 
ber that  when  you  kissed  me  first  in  the  chapel  some 
kind  of  strange  emotion  came  to  me — then  I  was  fright- 
ened  " 

304 


THE    AIAN    AND    THE    .AIOMENT 

"But  not  after  a  while,"  he  interpolated,  somctliing 
of  rapturous  triumph  in  his  fond  glance,  while  he  ca- 
ressed and  smoothed  her  hair,  as  her  little  head  lay 
against  his  shoulder,  "I  thought  you  had  forgiven  nie 
before  I  went  to  sleep." 

"Perhaps  I  had — I  did  not  know  myself — onlj'  that 
there  in  the  gray  dawn  everything  seemed  perfectly 
awful  and  horror  and  terror  came  upon  me  again,  and 
I  had  only  one  wild  impulse  to  rush  away — surely  you 
can  understand — "  she  paused. 

"Go  on,  sweetheart,"  he  commanded,  "I  shall  not  let 
you  off  one  detail.  I  love  to  make  you  tell  me  every 
single  thing" — and  he  took  her  hand  and  played  with 
her  wedding  ring,  but  not  taking  it  off,  while  Sabine 
thrilled  with  happiness. 

"Well — you  did  not  wake — and  so  presently  I  got 
into  the  sitting-room,  and  at  last  found  tlie  certificate 
— and  just  as  I  was  going  out  of  the  door  on  to  the 
balcony  I  heard  you  call  my  name  sleepily — and  for 
one  second  I  nearly  went  back — but  I  did  not,  and  got 
safely  away  and  to  the  hotel!" 

"Think  of  my  not  waking!"  Michael  exdainud.  "If 
only  I  had — you  would  never  have  been  allowed  to  go 
— it  is  maddening  to  remember  what  that  sleep  cost — 
but  how  did  you  manage  at  the  liotel?" 

"It  was  after  five  o'clock  and  the  side  door  was  opm 
into  the  yard.  Not  a  soul  saw  me,  and  I  carried  out 
my  original  plan.     I  think  when   I  was  in  the  train   I 

805 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

had  already  begun  to  regret  bitterly,  but  it  was  too 
late  to  go  back — and  then  next  day  your  letter  came  to 
me  at  Mr.  Parsons'  and  all  my  pride  was  up  in  arms !" 

Here  Michael  held  her  very  tight. 

"Oh,  what  a  brute  I  was  to  write  that  letter,"  he 
cried. 

"All  I  wanted  then  was  to  go  away  and  forget  all 
about  you  and  everything  and  have  lots  of  nice  clothes 
and  join  my  friend  Moravia  in  Paris.  You  see,  I  was 
still  just  a  silly  ignorant  child.  Mr.  Parsons  got  me 
a  good  maid  who  is  with  me  still,  and  he  agreed  at  last 
to  my  taking  the  name  of  Howard — I  thought  if  I  kept 
the  Arranstoun  everyone  would  know." 

"But  what  did  you  intend  to  do,  darling,  with  your 
life.  We  were  both  crazy,  of  course,  you  to  go — and 
I  to  let  you." 

"I  had  no  concrete  idea.  Just  to  see  the  world  and 
buy  what  I  wanted,  and  sit  up  late — and  not  have  to 
obey  any  rules,  I  think — and  underneath  there  was  a 
great  excitement  all  the  time  in  the  thought  of  looking 
perfectly  splendid  in  being  a  grand  grown-up  lady 
when  you  came  back — for  of  course  I  believed  then  that 
we  must  meet  again." 

"Well,  what  changed  all  that  and  made  you  become 
engaged  to  Henry,  you  wicked  little  thing!"  and  Mi- 
chael kissed  her  fondly —  "Was  it  because  I  did  not 
come  back? — but  you  could  have  cabled  to  me  at  any 
time." 

306 


THE  ^lAN  AND  THE  ^MOMENT 

An  enchanting  confusion  crept  over  Sabine — she  hes- 
itated— she  began  to  speak,  then  stopped  and  finally 
buried  her  face  in  his  coat. 

"What  is  it,  darling?"  he  asked  with  almost  a  tone 
of  anxiety  in  his  voice.  "Did  you  have  some  violent 
flirtation  with  someone  at  this  stage?  and  you  think  I 
shall  be  annoyed — but  indeed  I  shall  not,  because  I  do 
fully  realize  that  whatever  you  did  was  my  fault  for 
leaving  you  alone —  Tell  me,  Sabine,  you  sweet  child." 

"No — it  wasn't  that " 

"Well— then?" 


«i 


'Well — then  I  was — terrified — it  was  my  old  maid, 
Simone,  who  told  me  what  had  happened — I  was  still 
too  ingorant  to  understand  things." 

"Told  you  what?  What  wretched  story  did  the  old 
woman  invent  about  me?"  Michael's  eyes  Mere  haughty 
— that  she  could  listen  to  stories  from  a  maid ! 

Sabine  clasped  her  hands  together — ^llo  was  dcoply 
moved. 

"Oh,  Michael — you  are  stupid !  How  can  T  possibly 
tell  you — if  you  won't  understand." 

Then  she  jumped  up  suddenly  and  swiftly  brought 
her  blue-despatch  box  from  beside  her  writing-tal)]e  and 
unlocked  it  with  her  bracelet  key — while  Michael  with 
an  anxious,  puzzled  face  watched  her  intent ly.  She  sat 
down  again  beside  him  when  she  had  found  what  she 
sought — the  closed  blue  leather  case  v.hich  hIic  had 
looked  at  so  many  times. 

307 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

"If  you  are  going  to  show  me  some  brute's  photo- 
graph I  simply  refuse  to  look,"  Michael  said.  "All  that 
part  of  your  life  Is  over  and  we  are  going  to  begin 
afresh,  darling  one,  no  matter  what  you  did." 

But  she  crept  nearer  to  him  as  she  opened  the  case 
— and  her  voice  was  full  and  sweet,  shy  tenderness  as 
she  blurted  out: 

"It  is  not  a  brute's  photograph,  Michael,  it  is  the 
picture  of  your  own  little  son." 

"My  God!"  cried  Michael,  the  sudden  violent  emo- 
tion making  him  very  pale.  "Sabine — how  dared  you 
keep  this  from  me  all  these  years — I — "  Then  he 
seized  her  In  his  arms  and  for  a  few  seconds  they  could 
neither  of  them  speak — his  caresses  were  so  fierce.  At 
last  he  exclaimed  brokenly,  "Sabine — with  the  knowl- 
edge of  this  between  us  how  could  you  ever  have  even 
contemplated  belonging  to  another  man — Oh!  if  I  had 
only  known.    Where  is — my  son  ?" 

"You  must  listen,  Michael,  to  everything,"  Sabine 
whispered,  "then  you  will  understand — I  was  simply 
terrified  when  I  realized  at  last,  and  only  wanted  to  go 
back  to  you  and  be  comforted,  so  I  wrote  a  letter  at 
once  to  tell  you,  and  as  Mr.  Parsons  was  in  England 
again  I  sent  it  to  him  to  have  It  put  safely  into  your 
hands.  But  by  then  you  had  gone  right  off  to  China, 
and  Mr.  Parsons  sent  the  letter  back  to  me.  It  was 
useless  to  forward  it  to  you,  he  said,  you  might  not  get 
it  for  a  year." 

808 


THE  MAX  AND  THE  MOMENT 

Michael  strained  her  to  his  heart  once  more,  while 
his  eyes  grew  wet. 

"Oh,  my  poor  little  girl — all  alone,  how  frightfully 
cruel  it  was,  no  wonder  you  hated  me  then,  and  could 
not  forgive  me  even  afterward." 

"I  did  not  hate  you — I  was  only  terrified  and  longing 
to  rush  off  somewhere  and  hide — so  Sinionc  suggested 
San  Francisco — the  furthest  off  she  knew,  and  we  hur- 
ried over  there  and  then  I  was  awfully  111,  and  when 
my  baby  was  born  I  very  nearly  died." 

Michael  was  wordless,  he  could  only  kiss  her.     "That 
is   what  made  him   so   dcHcate — my   wretchedness   and 
rushing  about,"  she  went  on,  "and  so  I  was  punished 
because,  after  three  months,  God  took  him  back  again 
—my  dear  little  one— just  when  I  was  beginning  to 
grow  comforted  and  to  love  him.     He  was  exactly  like 
you,  Michael,  with  the  same  blue  eyes,  and  I  thought 
—I  thought,  we  should  go  back  to  Arranstoun  and  fin- 
ish our  estrangements  and  be  happy  again— the  three 
of  us— when  you  did  come  home— I  grow  radiant  and 
quite  well—"     Here  two  big  tears  gathered  in  her  vio- 
let eyes  and  fell  upon  Michael's  hand,  and  he  shivered 
with  the  intensity  of  his  feelings  as  he  held  her  close. 

"We  had  made  our  plans  to  go  East— but  my  lit  1 1.- 
sweetheart  caught  cold  somehow— ami  tlun  he  di.-d- 
Oh!  I  can't  tell  you  the  grief  of  il,  Mi.l.atK  I  was 
quite  reckless  after  that— it  was  in  Junr  an.l  I  .hd 
not  care  what  happened  to  me  for  a  long  wliiU-.     1  ju»t 

809 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

wanted  to  get  back  to  Moravia,  not  knowing  she  had 
left  Paris  for  Rome — and  then  I  crossed  in  July — and 
came  here  to  Brittany  and  saw  and  bought  Heronac  as 
I  told  you  before.  I  heard  then  that  you  had  not  re- 
turned from  China  or  made  any  sign — and  it  seemed 
all  so  cruel  and  ruthless,  and  as  there  were  no  longer 
any  ties  between  us  I  thought  that  I  would  crush  you 
from  my  life  and  forget  you,  and  that  I  would  educate 
myself  and  make  something  of  my  mind." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear  little  girl,"  Michael  sighed. 
"If  .you  knew  how  all  this  is  cutting  me  to  the  heart 
to  think  of  the  awful  brute  I  have  been — to  think  of  you 
bearing  things  all  alone — I  somehow  never  realized  the 
possibility  of  this  happening — ^but  once  or  twice  when  it 
did  cross  my  mind  I  thought  of  course  you  would  have 
cabled  to  me  if  so — I  am  simply  appalled  now  at  the 
casual  selfishness  of  my  behavior — can  you  ever  for- 
give me,  Sabine?" 

She  smoothed  back  his  dark  thick  hair  and  looked  into 
his  bold  eyes,  now  soft  and  glistening  with  tears. 

"Of  course  I  can  forgive  you,  Michael — I  belong  to 


you,  you  see 

So  when  he  had  kissed  her  enough  in  gratitude  and 
contrition  he  besought  her  to  go  on. 

"The  years  passed  and  I  thought  I  had  really  for- 
gotten you — and  my  life  grew  so  peaceful  with  the 
Pere  Anselme  and  Madame  Imogen  here  at  Heronac, 
and  all  sorts  of  wonderful  and  interesting  studies  kept 

310 


THE    IMAN    AND    THE    MO.AIENT 

developing  for  me.  I  seemed  to  grow  up  and  realize 
things  and  the  memory  of  you  grew  less  and  less — but 
society  never  held  out  any  attractions  for  me — only  to 
be  with  Moravia.  I  had  taken  almost  a  loathing  for 
men ;  their  actions  seemed  to  me  all  cruel  and  predatory, 
not  a  single  one  attracted  me  in  the  least  degree — until 
this  summer  at  Carlsbad  when  we  met  Henry.  And  he 
appeared  so  good  and  true  and  kind — and  I  felt  he 
could  lift  me  to  noble  things  and  give  me  a  guiding 
hand  to  greatness  of  purpose  in  life — I  liked  him — but  I 
must  tell  you  the  truth,  ]Michael,  and  you  will  see  how 
small  I  am,"  here  she  held  tightly  to  Michael's  hand 
— "I  do  not  think  I  would  ever  have  promised  him  at 
Carlsbad  that  I  would  try  to  free  myself  only  that  I 
read  in  the  paper  that  you  were  at  Ostendc — with 
Daisy  Van  der  Horn.  That  exasperated  me — even 
though  I  thought  I  was  absolutely  indifferent  to  you 
after  five  years,  I  had  never  seen  your  name  in  the 
paper  before,  it  was  the  first  indication  I  had  had  that 
you  had  come  home — and  the  whole  thing  wounded  my 
pride.  I  felt  that  I  must  ask  for  my  freedom  from  you 
before  you  possibly  could  ask  for  yours  from  nie.  So 
I  told  Henry  that  very  night  that  I  had  made  up  my 
mind." 

"Oh!  you  dear  little  goose,"  Michael  interrupted. 
"Not  one  of  those  ladies  mattered  to  mo  more  tlian  the 
other — they  were  merely  to  pass  the  time  of  day,  of  no 
importance  whatever." 

fill 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

"I  dare  say — but  I  am  telling  you  my  story,  Mi- 
chael—  Well,  Henry  was  so  wonderful,  so  good — and 
it  got  so  that  he  seemed  to  mean  everything  fine,  he 
drew  me  out  of  myself  and  your  shadow  grew  to  mean 
less  and  less  to  me  and  I  believed  that  I  had  forgot- 
ten you  quite — except  for  the  irritation  I  felt  about 
Daisy — and  then  by  that  extraordinary  turn  of  fate, 
Henry  himself  brought  you  here,  and  I  did  not  even 
know  the  name  of  the  friend  who  was  coming  with 
him ;  he  had  not  told  me  in  the  hurried  postscript  of 
his  letter  saying  he  was  bringing  some  one — I  saw  you 
both  arrive  from  the  lodge,  and  when  I  heard  the  tones 
of  your  voice — Ah !  well,  you  can  imagine  what  it 
meant !" 

"No,  I  want  to  know,  little  darling — what  did  it 
mean?"  and  Michael  looked  into  her  eyes  with  fond 
command. 

"It  made  my  heart  beat  and  my  knees  tremble  and  a 
strange  thrill  came  over  me — I  ought  to  have  known 
then  that  to  feel  like  that  did  not  mean  indifference — 
oughtn't  I?" 

"I  expect  so — but  what  a  moment  it  was  when  we  did 
meet,  you  must  come  to  that!" 

"Arrogant,  darling  creature  you  are,  Michael !  You 
love  to  make  me  recount  all  these  things,"  and  Sabine 
looked  so  sweetly  mutinous  that  he  could  not  remain 
tranquilly  listening  for  the  moment,  but  had  to  make 
passionate  love  to  her — whispering  every  sort  of  en- 

S12 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

dearment  into  her  little  ear — though  presently  she  con- 
tinued the  recital  of  her  story  again : 

"I  stood  there  in  the  lodge  after  the  shock  of  seeing 
you  had  passed,  and  I  began  to  burn  with  every  sort 
of  resentment  against  you — I  had  had  all  the  suffer- 
ing and  you  had  gone  free — and  I  just  felt  I  wanted 
to  punish  you  by  pretending  not  to  know  you!  Think 
of  it!  How  small — and  yet  there  underneath  I  felt 
your  old  horribly  powerful  charm !" 

"Oh,  you  did,  did  you!  You  darling,"  Michael  ex- 
claimed— and  what  do  you  suppose  I  felt — if  we  had 
only   rushed  there  and  then  into  each  other's  arms !" 

"I  was  quite  prepared  for  you  in  the  garden — and 
did  not  I  play  my  part  well !  You  got  quite  wliite,  3-ou 
know  with  surprise — and  I  felt  exquisitely  excited.  I 
could  see  you  had  come  in  all  innocence — having  prob- 
ably forgotten  our  joking  arrangement  that  I  sliould 
call  myself  i\Irs.  Howard — I  could  not  think  why  you 
did  not  speak  out  and  denounce  me.  It  hurt  my  pride, 
I  thought  it  was  because  you  wanted  to  divorce  mc  and 
marry  Daisy  tliat  you  were  indifferent  about  it,  I 
did  not  know  it  was  because  you  had  given  your  word 
of  honor  to  Henry  not  to  interfere  with  tlie  woman  lie 
loved.  Then  after  dinner  Henry  told  mc  you  knew  that 
he  and  I  were  practically  engaged — that  stung  me 
deeply — it  seemed  to  prove  your  indifference — so  tlnngs 
developed  and  we  met  in  the  garden — Michael,  was  not 
that  a  wonderful  hour!     How  we  both  acted.     If  you 

313 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

had  indicated  by  word  or  look  that  you  remembered  me, 
I  could  not  have  kept  it  up,  we  should  have  had  to  tell 
Henry  then — we  were  playing  at  cross-purposes  and 
my  pride  was  wounded." 

"I  understand,  sweetheart,  go  on." 

"Well,  I  was  miserable  at  luncheon,  and  then  when 
you  went  out  in  the  boat — ^being  with  you  was  like  some 
intoxicating  drink — I  was  more  excited  than  I  had  ever 
been  in  my  life.  I  was  horrid  toward  Henry,  I  would 
not  own  it  to  myself,  but  I  felt  him  to  be  the  stumbling 
block  in  the  way.  So  I  was  extra  nice  to  him  to  con- 
vince myself — and  I  let  him  hold  my  arm,  which  I  had 
never  done  before  and  you  saw  that  in  the  garden.  I 
suppose — and  thought  I  loved  him  and  so  went — that 
was  nice  of  you,  Michael — ^but  stupid,  wasn't  it!" 

"Ridiculously  stupid,  everything  I  did  was  stupid 
that  separated  you  from  me.  The  natural  action  of 
my  character  would  have  been  just  to  seize  you 
again  and  carry  you  off  resisting  or  unresisting  to 
Arranstoun,  but  some  idiotic  sentiment  of  honor  to 
Henry  held  me." 

"I  cried  a  little,  I  believe,  when  I  got  your  note — 
I  went  up  into  this  room  and  opened  this  dispatch-box 
and  read  your  horrid  letter  again — and  I  believe  I 
looked  into  the  blue  leather  case,  too" — here  she  opened 
it  once  more — ^and  they  both  examined  it  tenderly.  "Of 
course  you  can't  see  anything  much  in  this  little  pho- 
tograph— but  he  really  was  so  like  you,  Michael,  and 

314- 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  MOMENT 

when  I  looked  at  it  again  after  seeing  you,  I  could 
have  sobbed  aloud,  I  wanted  you  so " 

"My  dear,  dear,  little  girl " 

"Henry  had  told  me  casually  that  afternoon  your 
story,  and  how  he  had  not  stayed  at  Arranstoun  for 
the  wedding  because  he  thought  your  action  so  unfair 
to  the  bride ! — and  how  that  now  you  felt  rather  a  dog 
in  the  manger  about  her.  That  infuriated  me!  Can't 
you  understand  I  had  only  one  desire,  to  show  you  that 
I  did  not  care  since  you  had  gone  off.  Henry  was 
simply  angelic  to  me — and  asked  me  so  seriously  if  he 
could  really  make  me  happy,  if  not  he  would  release 
me  then.  I  felt  if  he  would  take  me,  all  bruised  and 
restless,  and  comfort  me  and  bring  me  peace,  I  diil 
indeed  wish  to  be  his  wife — and  if  nothing  more  had 
happened  we  might  have  grown  quite  happy  from  tlicn, 
but  we  went  to  England — and  I  saw  you  again — and 
— Oh!  well,  Michael,  need  I  tell  you  any  more?  You 
know  how  we  fenced  and  how  at  last  we  could  not  l)car 
it — up  in  Mrs.  Forster's  room  !" 

"It  was  the  most  delirious  and  most  unhappy  moment 
of  my  life,  darling." 

"And  now  it  is  all  over — isn't  Henry  n  splcmlid  man? 
I  told  him  all  this  yesterday — the  Perc  Ansehnc  h/id 
suggested  to  him  to  come  and  ask  me  for  tlic  truth. 
He  behaved  too  nolily — but  I  did  not  know  wliat  he 
intended  to  do,  nor  if  it  were  too  late  to  stop  the  di- 
vorce or  anything,  so  I  was  miserable." 

315 


THE    1\IAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

"You  shall  not  be  so  any  more — ^we  will  go  back 
to  Arranstoun  at  once,  darling,  and  begin  a  new  and 
glorious  life  together.  From  every  point  of  view  that 
is  the  best  thing  to  be  done.  We  could  not  possibly  go 
on  all  staying  here,  it  would  be  grotesque — and  I  am 
quite  detennined  that  I  will  never  leave  you  again 
— do  you  hear,  Sabine  .f"'  And  he  turned  her  face  and 
made  her  look  into  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  I  hear! — and  know  that  you  were  always  the 
most  masterful  creature!" 

"Do  you  want  to  change  me?" 

But  Sabine  let  herself  be  clasped  in  his  arms  while 
she  abandoned  herself  to  the  deep  passionate  joy  she 
felt. 

"No — IVIichael — I  would  not  alter  you  in  one  little 
bit,  we  are  neither  of  us  very  good  or  very  clever,  but 
I  just  love  you  and  you  love  me — and  we  are  mates! 
There!" 

9  ^  ^  •!*  ^  ^  ^ 

They  carried  out  their  plans  and  arrived  at  Ar- 
ranstoun Castle  a  few  days  later.  Michael  wired  to 
have  everything  ready  for  their  reception  and  both  ex- 
perienced the  most  profound  emotion  when  first  they 
entered  Michael's  sitting-room  again. 

"There  is  the  picture,  darling,  that  you  fell  through 
and — here  is  Binko  waiting  to  receive  and  welcome 
you !" 

316 


THE  :man  and  the  mo.aient 

The  mass  of  fat  wrinkles  got  up  from  his  basket 
and  condescended,  after  showing  a  wild  but  suppressed 
joy  at  the  sight  of  his  master,  to  be  re-introduced  to 
his  mistress  who  expressed  due  appreciation  of  his 
beauty. 

"That  old  dog  has  been  my  only  confidant  about  you, 
Sabine,  ever  since  I  came  back — he  could  tell  you  how 
frantic  I  was,  couldn't  you,  Binko?" 

Binko  slobbered  his  acquiescence  and  then  the  tea 
was  brought  in;  Sabine  sat  down  to  pour  it  out  in  the 
very  chair  she  had  sat  in  long  ago.  She  was  tailor  now, 
but  still  her  little  feet  did  not  reach  the  ground. 

The  most  ecstatic  happiness  was  permeating  them 
both,  and  it  all  seemed  like  a  divine  dream  to  be  there 
together  and  alone.  They  reconstructed  every  incident 
of  their  first  meeting  in  a  fond  duet — each  supplying  a 
link,  and  they  talked  of  all  their  new  existence  together 
and  what  it  would  mean,  and  presently  Michael  drew 
Sabine  toward  the  chapel  where  the  lights  were  all  lit. 

"Darling,"  he  whispered,  "I  want  to  make  new  vows 
of  love  and  tenderness  to  you  here,  because  to-night  is 
our  real  wedding  night — I  want  you  to  forget  that 
other  one  and  blot  it  right  out," 

But  Sabine  moved  very  close  to  him  as  she  clung  to 
his  arm,  and  her  whole  soul  was  in  her  eyes  as  she 
answered : 

"I  do  not  want  to  forget  It.  T  know  very  well  tl)/it 
I  had  begun  to  love  you  even  then.     But,  Michael — do 

817 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    MOMENT 

you  remember  that  undecoratcd  window  which  you  told 
me  had  been  left  so  probably  for  you  to  embellish  as 
an  expiatory  offering,  because  rapine  and  violence  were 
in  the  blood —  Well,  dear  love,  I  think  we  must  put 
up  the  most  beautiful  stained  glass  together  there — in 
memory  of  our  little  son.  For  we  are  equally  to  blame 
for  his  brief  life  and  death." 

But  Michael  was  too  moved  to  speak  and  could  only 
clasp  her  hand. 


(1) 


THE    END 


